


All Of These Dreams (Keep Coming Back To Me Slowly)

by roebling



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom!Namjoon, Coming Out, Depression, First Love, First Time, Future Fic, Injury, Loss of Virginity, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 78,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: After completing his military service, Park Jimin ends up back home in Busan working at his dad's coffee shop. Bangtan is over and he has no idea where to turn next. A phone call from an old friend offers him a way forward, if he's willing to take it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Update: I've added a 'Bottom!Namjoon' tag, but please note that I am in general very resistant to identifing people by their preferred sexual practice. I mention in the story that Namjoon assumes a variety of roles depending on both his preferences and the preferences of his partner. The tag is intended as a courtesy to a reader who asked for it, but it does not reflect the way I wrote Namjoon or his sexuality.
> 
> Ohhhhh my gosh I am so glad to finally be posting this monster. It's been six months since I first saw BTS with [words_unravel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_unravel/profile) and she kindly let me keep asking who was who :D I want to extend the deepest thanks to her and to [mintea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintea/pseuds/mintea), who held my hand the entire time I wrote this and provided an enormous amount of help, encouragement, and advice. This wouldn't have been possible without the two of them, and they have my deepest gratitude <333
> 
> The title comes from the beautiful song [Gwan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIQ2atEdfII) by Rostam. I strongly suggest you listen and take a look at the video, which are lovely in their own right and set the scene for the story nicely. 
> 
> This story has 7 chapters and an epilogue. I'll be posting one chapter a week (or so ...) until it's all up. I don't believe there is any content that needs to be warned for, but as always if you have questions about anything let me know. I will update the tags if I think that's needed. 
> 
> This is my first BTS story and I'm a bit nervous about jumping into a new fandom but I hope some of you enjoy this little story :) It starts slow but it's a long ride, so bear with me!
> 
> Oh yeah, PS! I would love to commission some illustrations for this story. If you're a fan artist who might be interested hit me up. I have a really specific vision of what I'm looking for so I might be a little picky but I'd be glad to pay the going rate for something that gets close to what I see in my head :P

Seven hours into an eight hour shift, Jimin's back is killing him. He closes his eyes and stretches, wincing at the ache.

He smells like sour milk and burnt coffee. He spilled a latte down his front during the afternoon rush. He could have gone home to change after things calmed down, but the aprons are black and it doesn't really matter. It's ten o'clock now and almost time to lock up for the night. There's just one couple left at a table by the front window, sipping sweet drinks and talking quietly to each other. It's nice. Jimin likes when happy couples come in.

Sunmin wrote up a list of things he needs to clean before they close up. It's tacked up beside the little cheat sheet of drink recipes she made him his first day. He disassembles and cleans the first espresso machine with bleach diluted with water. It makes the skin on his hands rough and ugly. He remembers when he used to go to the salon and have his nails done every week. The manicurists would tease him about his small, delicate hands. What would those nunas would think if they saw him now? He washes the dirty cups and dishes, and sets them in the rack to dry. He restocks the espresso beans and wraps up the leftover desserts in the pastry case and puts them away. He wipes out the case. 

Sunmin comes out of the back room. 

"All done?" he asks, smiling. 

"Yup," she says. "Need to get your dad to order extra cream this week. We're going through it faster than usual." 

"Mmm," Jimin says. He'll remember and mention it to his dad, although he knows Sunmin already made a note on her inventory sheet. "I'll say something." 

"Thanks, oppa," she says. 

He gets a weird twinge in his heart every time she says that, even though they work six shifts a week together. Sunmin is twenty years old and a freshman at university. It's been a long time since she first walked into his father’s cafe as a wide-eyed fan and anxiously filled out an application for a job. 

She isn't a nervous teenager any more and Jimin doesn't really have fans these days. 

The bell over the door chimes. A group of girls walk in. They are high-school age, and wearing their uniforms. They see him behind the counter and smile. He smiles back. He's faking it. He wishes he didn't have to. 

"Hello," the tallest girl says nervously. He recognizes her. This group of girls comes in every week like clockwork since he started working here. He doesn't even know how they knew. Fan hive-mind or something. One person spots you behind the counter at some cafe in Busan and the next day the entire fan club knows. "Hi Jimin oppa." 

"Hello," he says, smiling. "What can I get you?" 

She giggles and blushes and places her order. 

The girls order sugary things: hot chocolates and sweet potato lattes. They take a seat around a few tables in front of the register while he makes their drinks. They smile and laugh, glancing at him shyly, leaning in to whisper to each other. 

There are pictures of him from the old days on the walls. He wishes his parents would take them down, but he won't ask them to. It would probably be bad for business, and they're trying to save up for his brother's wedding. 

He brings the tray of drinks to the table and sets each mug down carefully.

"Jimin oppa," one of the girls says in a tiny voice. "Are you watching Taehyung oppa's drama too?" 

His eyes flick up towards the television in the corner of the room. Taehyung, dressed in an ugly suit, is glowering at a female actress whose name Jimin doesn't know. 

"Of course," he says, grinning. "Isn't everyone watching? It's the new trend." 

They laugh, although he hadn't been making a joke. They would probably laugh at anything he said. 

His back spasms. He blinks and swallows. Two surgeries, and he feels like old man. Fuck. 

"It's so great that you all still support each other," another girl says, smiling. 

"Of course we do," he says. "Even after ... I mean, we're family. They're my brothers." 

The girls dissolve in paroxysms of fannish delight. 

“Are you going to come back?” another girl asks. She must be the bold friend, because there is a bright pink streak in her dark hair. “Now that you’re out of the army, I mean. Everyone in the fan cafe is wondering if you’ll come back as a group.” 

“Nothing’s certain,” Jimin says slowly. “But maybe.”

Their excitement reaches a fever pitch. 

Jimin feels guilty about lying to them, but he doesn't want to disappoint the fans even more than he already has. 

The couple leaves and then the girls leave and it's time to close up shop. Sunmin counts out the till. Jimin wipes down the tables with the harsh bleach and water mixture. The fluorescent lights flicker and make the green walls look sick. His head hurts. His back hurts worse.

At eleven they step outside and lock the door. 

"You have class tomorrow?" Jimin asks, pulling on a beanie. It's February and it is bitterly cold, even in Busan.

Sunmin nods, taking out her phone. "You're opening by yourself," she says. "Jaewon will be in at eight. You'll be okay, oppa?" 

Jimin nods. "I'll be fine." He's not the best barista in the world, but he can manage for an hour. “Thanks, Sunminnie,” 

Sunmin's boyfriend pulls up on his scooter. He is a handsome young man a few years Jimin's junior who is studying engineering. Jimin waves to them. They wave back, and take off. 

Jimin should go home, but he feels restless. Working all day leaves him brainless and dull. He can’t concentrate. He needs some fresh air. He needs to wake up. His sweatshirt isn't warm enough for this weather.

The walk to the subway revives him a little. It's a Wednesday night, but there are people on the streets even this late. A pair of women hold hands and stroll slowly down the sidewalk. Office workers, still dressed in crumpled suits, help each other into cabs. A group of girls pass around a cup of ddeokbokki.

Jimin had that once: people who he could take care of, and who could take care of him. He misses it so much. 

He gets a seat on the train. It's not crowded this time of night so he doesn't feel guilty about sitting down. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. The pre-recorded announcements are unerringly polite. Everyone in the car is a stranger. They each sit in their own little pocket of silence, pretending they're alone. That's a pretty good line, he thinks. Maybe in all that time trailing along after Yoongi and Namjoon a fraction of their talent rubbed off on him. 

Not enough to make a difference though. 

He emerges from the subway into quiet streets. There are people in bars, people smoking on the sidewalks, but it seems very late now. He is close to the ocean. The churn of the surf is a quiet roar in the background. It's a windy evening, and he pulls his hands into his sleeves. Should have worn a coat. 

He takes his sneakers off on the sidewalk. It is a clear night and the bridge snakes bright across the horizon, but the beach is empty. A few couples strolling hand in hand is all. Jimin steps onto the sand. It is cold and coarse and hurts underfoot, like walking on ground glass. He slowly walks near the water's edge. Cars race across Gwangandaegyo. The water is black and smooth, glazed with phosphorescent foam.

During his years away, Jimin thought about Busan all the time. He thought about his friends and his family, and most often about the beaches. Was there any place more beautiful than the beaches in Busan? He loved the blue wild waves and the white sand and the broad stretch of the sky overhead. He remembers coming home and curling his toes into the sand and feeling alive and happy, in exactly the right place. 

He feels none of that now. It's just water, just sand, just another city sky where the bleed of light drowns out all but the brightest stars. 

He goes home. His parents are asleep and the house is dark. Quietly, he takes off his shoes. He takes off his sour-milk stink clothes and puts on sweatpants and a clean shirt. In the bathroom, he washes his face and brushes his teeth. He lies down to go to sleep in the same room where he slept as a child and tries not to think about anything. He is tired, and tomorrow he has to do it all again. 

*****

"Excuse me, but I ask for a double shot macchiato with a little foam. This has way too much foam." 

The woman's face is red, which clashes with her crimson lipstick. 

"Sorry," Jimin says, reaching for the offending drink. "I'll make you another one." 

It's quarter to nine, and the cafe is busy. Jaewon is on the register. Jimin has the bar. There's a mad rush every day while everyone on their way somewhere important -- office workers to their shiny offices, students off to school -- tries to get the caffeine they need to make it through the morning. 

He remakes the woman's drink, but she's still angry. She scowls at him as she snatches the cup, muttering about incompetent kids making her late for work. 

Can't win them all. Can't even win most. People have high expectations when it comes to their coffee. Jimin's only been doing this a few months. 

By ten o'clock the rush has died down enough that there's a moment for Jimin to catch his breath. 

"Everyone must have been up late last night," Jaewon says. “It’s busy today.” He's a nice kid a few years younger than Jimin. He’s still in university, studying economics at his father’s insistence. What he wants to do is study sustainable agriculture and start a urban farm. That’s a nice dream, but not realistic. Jimin likes him alot, but they aren’t exactly friends. Jaewon seems very young, even though their difference in age is not great. 

"Yeah," Jimin says. "I didn't sleep that well either. Maybe it was a full moon or something." 

"Mmm," Jaewon says. “Maybe.” 

He seems only marginally aware that Jimin was ever an idol, in spite of the memorabilia all over the cafe. If it is willful ignorance, Jimin appreciates the gesture. 

By eleven it's really dead. Jaewon stakes out one of the tables by the front and pulls out some homework. Jimin cleans up anything he can think to clean and then takes out his phone. He's got a text from an old school friend -- they've been playing tag trying to find a time to meet up ever since Jimin got discharged, but his friend is married now and has a corporate job that doesn't leave him much free time. He'll reply later.

There's a group chat in KKT that has unread messages. He ignores that. He's been ignoring it for years. He has a message from Hoseok too. That should be safe enough.

 _jiminnie!!!!!!! I miss you, kiddo!! u know I'm going to be on a new show soon, right? a variety~~~ u better watch!!!!!!_

Jimin smiles. _of course I’ll watch, hyung_

He'll watch an episode or two, just the same way he listened to Jungkook’s bit hit song every damn time it came on the radio. Just the same way he listens to Yoongi’s radio show at least once or twice a week. He loves the guys, and he will always support them. 

The bell over the door peals and a customer is ushered in by a gust of cold wind. Jimin makes the customer her Spanish latte and rings her up. When he looks back the TV in the corner has switched from some daily drama to an entertainment news show. They're talking about the latest trend drama 'Full Moon First Kiss' -- the story of a 300 year old werewolf girl attending university and navigating the pitfalls of first love while concealing her furry little problem from her new classmates and her handsome sunbae crush. Ratings have climbed into high twenties, and the young stars are being feted around town. 

Taehyung plays the noble werewolf Junho, childhood friend and one-sided lover of the heroine. Critical reviews haven't been so kind to him, but professional opinions pale in the light of the burning passion of the mothers and daughters of South Korea.

Taehyung, at least, doesn't need Jimin's support. Not any more. He's really famous now. More famous than they were at their peak. He plays a fairytale prince in a commercial for Etude House, for god's sake.

Jimin is proud of him. He's always proud when his friends do well. He just ... 

Back when Bangtan were still little more than rookies, they’d made a promise that they would enlist and do their military service together. That seems so long ago now that it’s like another lifetime. Much later, when things went bad fast, and Jimin decided he was going to get his service over with (when Jimin got scared, when Jimin ran away) they'd made another promise. Taehyung would be there when Jimin enlisted, and he'd be there when Jimin got out. 

He upheld the first half of the promise, and the second half ... well, it wasn't really his fault. His drama was filming on location up in the mountains somewhere, and he couldn't get away. He'd called and invited Jimin to a party that weekend the cast was having, just like no time at all had passed. Just like everything was exactly the same as it had been.

Jimin had politely declined and ended the call, begging exhaustion. 

Taehyung has called again since then, a few times, but Jimin hasn't answered. He hasn't listened to the voicemails either. Even still, when he’s tired or distracted he’ll come to himself and realize that his finger his hovering over the call button on his phone, almost ready to dial Taehyung’s number. They were so close, for so long. They had been best friend, for real, outside of the group, and Jimin had gone to Taehyung first for everything. 

It’s a hard habit to break. Jimin misses having someone to talk to.

Sunmin comes in at two and Jimin could leave then but he sticks around for a little while longer. It's busy and he wants to make sure they don't need help. Jaewon and Sunmin are fine, though. They're fine. They’ve both worked here longer than he has. They've got it covered. They don't need him. 

It's just a coffee shop. It's not rocket science. 

He hates the long afternoons. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He wanders up towards Seomyeon. The sidewalks are crowded. People push past, irritated at his slow pace. He feels like the only person in the world without anywhere to go. 

He stops in a music store. It's a specialty place that caters to fans-- there aren't many shops left that actually sell physical albums. Jungkook's new solo is prominently displayed. Jimin smiles to see their maknae doing so well, looking so grown up. Sometimes it seems like hardly any time has passed since he was standing with the others watching Jungkook graduate from high school. Sometimes that feels like another life altogether. 

He is in a department store browsing through racks of shirts he won't buy when his mother calls. 

"Honey," she says. "Where are you?" 

"Um, on my way home?" He thinks that is the right answer.

"Oh good," she says, relieved. "I know you got off at two. Remember your brother and Jihee are coming over for dinner tonight. 

Oh, right. He'd forgotten, or blocked it from his mind. He's not sure which. 

"I'll be home soon," he says. 

Jihyun and Jihee arrive exactly at seven. Newly engaged, they are all smiles. Jimin met his brother's fiancee before he enlisted, but she was just a girlfriend at the time and he hadn't payed that much attention. 

Now they are going to be married before the year is out. 

He likes her. He never doubted that his brother made a good choice. She is more cute than pretty, and she has a good smile and laughs often. Most importantly, Jihyun adores her, and it seems like she adores him too. They sit too close together and finish each other's sentences. His parents have never been very formal, and Jihyun and Jihee have been dating long enough that the family is comfortable and easy around her. 

Jimin is the one who feels out of place. He's the one who's been gone, and who was barely around before he enlisted.

"You must be glad to be home," Jihee says, turning that bright smile on him. "Jihyun said your service was in a real backwater." 

Jimin shrugs. "It was okay. Lots of fresh country air,” he says with false buoyancy. 

"You were a guard, right?" That smile is a little more tentative. "Because of your ..." 

"My back, yeah," Jimin says airily. "A few fused vertebrae and suddenly you're unfit for service!" 

Nobody laughs. Whoops. 

He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, I was in public service. I was part of the campus police at KAIST." 

"Oh, wow," she says politely. It’s nice of her to act impressed even though everyone knows that getting assigned to a campus police unit is embarrassing.

There is an awkward pause, and then his mother tactfully changes the subject. “So Jihee, tell me again, what venues are you thinking of?” 

Later, after Jihyun leaves to drive Jihee home, Jimin helps his mother do the dishes and listens to her wax poetic about Jihyun's fiancee and preparations for the wedding. 

"She's a really lovely girl," his mother says. "I'm so glad they've decided to wear hanbok for the ceremony. Western dresses are beautiful, but for my taste nothing is more beautiful than a hanbok. They'll be such a good looking couple. Couples in love always are." 

"Yeah," Jimin says, elbows-deep in soapy water. "Jihyunnie really does love her. I'm happy for him." 

"Yes," his mother says, smiling. She reaches for the bowl he's just rinsed. "I'm so glad he's happy. I'm so proud of both of you boys." 

Jimin swallows. "You did a good job raising us," he says. "You and Dad ... I know it wasn't easy. I wish ..." He scrubs at a stubborn bit of rice burnt onto the bottom of a bowl. "I'm sorry." He doesn't even know what he's apologizing for. 

"Jimin-ah," his mother says, voice soft and faintly reproachful. "You never have to apologize to me. I just want you to be happy." 

"I am happy," he says, but he doesn't even put any effort into making it sound true. He finally gets the bit of rice loose. His fingers are red from scrubbing so hard. The clock is ticking loudly. The laugh track of whatever his father is watching in the other room sounds vaguely evil. 

She watches him, clutching a dripping plate in her hands. He doesn't remember her looking so pale, so old. They've all gotten older. No way to avoid that. 

"Oh, honey," she says.

Jimin smiles his biggest smile. "I love you, Mom," he says, wrapping her in soapy arms. She laughs, and halfheartedly swats him away. "Let me finish these dishes. Go sit down and rest." 

Later, after his parents have gone to bed, Jimin sits awake in his childhood bedroom. His mother packed up most of his things long ago. It's the same room -- same shape, same familiar shadows -- but empty now. He changes into sweatpants and sits at his desk. There's a pile of mail there that he hasn't got the heart to go through. Opened and unopened, everything is jumbled together. Somewhere at the bottom of the pile is the invitation to the opening of a restaurant in Seoul. Seokjin is a partner, and he’s very proud. He wants them all to come and see it. 

Jimin hasn't RSVPed yet. It’s not too late, but he doesn't think he will. 

The rest of the mail is an assortment of things he doesn't have the energy or intelligence to deal with: letters from Big Hit and all the other agencies and corporations that managed to sink their claws into some piece of Bangtan before the end, pitifully small royalty checks, official communication from the Military Manpower Administration. He shuffles the heap into a slightly tidier pile. One of these days, he'll go through it all. One of these days. 

It is almost eleven o'clock. He should be tired, but he's not. He flicks through his phone and sees Hoseok's message from earlier. There’s still a little while before his show debuts. Jimin is looking forward to it. It will be good to see Hoseok on television, if not in person. He opens up his laptop and pulls up the web page for MBC 900AM. Five nights a week from 10:05 PM to midnight the station airs Min Yoongi's Sweet Starry Night radio program. It is an unexpected hit. 

Jimin doesn't listen every night. Some nights hearing Yoongi's voice over the radio and not being able to turn to him and poke fun or lay an easy hand on his shoulder is too painful. He misses that closeness so much. Sometimes, though, on nights like this when he can’t sleep and the hours until morning seem terribly long, just hearing Yoongi’s voice is a comfort. 

The program is halfway through when he tunes in and he has to sit through two commercials and an old fashioned ballad before the host comes back on air. Jimin rests his head on his folded arms and listens. 

"Ah, that was I Am Wind by Lee Young sunbaenim. Isn't that a beautiful song? Kind of creepy too, though. Isn't it a little creepy? The idea that someone is watching over us from afar, like the invisible wind. Ah, I'm not sure. You know I used to be part of a group --" Yoongi laughs, quietly. "Yes, you know, right? I wonder if it's not a little bit like that. Although I don't spend every day with those friends any more, I am still thinking of them and watching over them silently. Yes, that means you. You know who you are. Call your hyung sometime why don’t you?" He laughs again, the quiet slightly stuttering laugh that Jimin remembers.

Jimin closes his eyes. Yoongi’s not talking to him, of course. Jimin knows how it works: there are writers and producers. Even the banter is scripted. Part of Yoongi’s schtick is playing the ‘grumpy former idol’. This is part of that act.

Still, on a night like this when Jimin feels so alone and so tired there is something beautiful about the idea of Yoongi watching over him from afar. Tears leak out of the corners of his eyes and trail down his cheeks, and something catches in his throat. He thinks of Yoongi and Seokjin, of everyone in Seoul, working hard, doing their best. He thinks of Namjoon, all the way on the other side of the world. They are all still struggling forward. He’s the only one who has given up. He hasn’t even called. He hasn’t been in touch. The tears tickle the end of his nose as they drip off. 

He has been a bad friend, a bad brother. He will do better. 

*****

"Hyung, what are you doing tonight?" Jaewon is leaning back against the counter, his long bangs falling in his face. That's the style now, apparently, and Jimin is awkwardly conscious of his own still-growing-out buzz cut.

"Nothing," Jimin says. He's not sure why Jaewon even asks. He's never doing anything. 

"Want to come out for drinks?" Jaewon asks. 

Jimin frowns, touched but surprised. Jaewon is a nice guy, but they aren't especially close and haven't known each other very long. Maybe everyone is going? But Sunmin has off today to study for a big exam coming up, so she wouldn't be ... 

"My girlfriend's older sister is in town," Jaewon explains. "We were going to go get some snacks and drinks at this place where my friend works. I told Minji I'd try to find someone to come with us." 

Ah. Minji is Jaewon’s girlfriend. Jimin is going to be the fourth wheel. That makes a little more sense. 

He is at the point of refusing when he remembers the little piece of paper his mother handed him a few days back: her friend's pretty niece's name and phone number, just in case he was ever bored and wanted to meet her. 

It would make his mother happy if he went on a date. It would probably make his mother happy if he did anything other than come home and sit in his bedroom alone. Besides, he'll be helping out a coworker. 

"I guess so," he says. "Sure." 

Jaewon looks up and smiles. "Great. You're a lifesaver," he says, sounding relieved. "I already asked some of the guys from university, but nobody could make it on such short notice." 

Jimin smiles stiffly. Of course he wouldn't have been the first person Jaewon asked. They're not even that close. 

Six hours later, after he's gone home and showered and shaved and tried to do something with his hair, he is waiting out front of a restaurant he's never been to in a part of town he's not that familiar with. It was an industrial neighborhood when he was a kid and has only become trendy in recent years. He's wearing nice jeans and a dark sweater over a button-down shirt. His mother had smiled when she'd seen him and straightened his collar and told him he looked very nice. He knows it doesn’t matter, but he is still conscious of the value of of impressing people. 

He takes out his phone to have something to do, but even that isn't really any kind of distraction. Just messages he doesn’t want to read, depressing news he doesn’t want to see. 

"Jimin hyung!" 

Jimin looks up, startled. 

Jaewon and two women are walking up the street from the direction of the subway. Jimin smiles and waves. If being an idol was good for nothing else, it taught him how to feign enthusiasm in even the most miserable of circumstances. This should be a piece of cake. 

"Jimin, this is Minji." 

"I've heard so much about you," Jimin says politely, shaking her hand. 

"And this is her sister Soomi." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Jimin says, taking the older woman's hand and smiling in a way he hopes is charming. He used to be good at this kind of thing, but then again, he used to sit in front of his mirror and practice. 

They go inside. The restaurant is nice-ish and trendy, packed with a young crowd, dressed casually. It serves traditional Korean dishes reimagined through the context of the Korean diaspora, whatever that means. Jimin feels stuffy and old in his sweater and shirt. Although there's a wait, Jaewon knows the head waiter so they're led to a table right away. Jimin sits next to the sister. 

They get settled and Jaewon's friend comes to take their drink order. There's another round of introductions. Jimin smiles and nods at the appropriate places. He's always been a friendly person, but he's rusty. The pitcher of beer comes and Jaewon pours everyone a round. 

After they order some snacks they relax into the biographical sketch portion of the conversation. Soomi is quiet and beautiful, a year younger than Jimin, older than both her sister and Jaewon. It is her dream to become a judge, and she is in her second year studying law at Ewha. She talks for a little bit about her classes and about the neighborhood. She went to university in Busan, so she is new to Seoul and still exploring it. She lives near the university, in spite of the rent, because it makes her mother feel better. Jimin gathers that she comes from a family of means. 

"I love that neighborhood," Jimin says, glad to have something to contribute. 

"Oh," Soomi says, "Did you live in Seoul?" 

Jimin nods. "For almost ten years." 

She frowns. "Ten years? I'm sorry, but how old are you? You look so young I thought you were around Jaewonnie's age..." 

"He's older than you are," Minji says, rolling her eyes. "Don't you pay attention, unni?

Soomi laughs, awkwardly. "I'm so sorry, Jimin-ssi. I thought you must be a classmate of Jaewon's." 

Jimin smiles. "My dad owns the cafe where Jaewon works, actually. I work with him. I'm not a student -- I'm an old man," he jokes, lamely. He hasn't been a student in a long, long time. 

"Oh," Soomi says. "Are you working at the cafe part time or --?" She is polite but curious, sizing him up.

"He just finished his military service," Jaewon says. He doesn't say it, but 'cut him some slack' is implied. 

"Ah," Soomi says, nodding. "Of course. Did you live in Seoul while you were at university, then?" 

Jimin coughs. "Not exactly," he says. "I moved there for work." 

"Oh," she says. "After university then?" 

"No," Jimin says. He isn't angry, but he feels like he could get angry at this beautiful woman and her condescending questions. "I didn't go to university." He calmly takes a sip of beer. 

"Oh," she says. Her eyebrows raise. He can feel himself slide slowly down several notches in her estimation. 

Jaewon frowns. He is not a stupid guy, and he surely must see that they are treading on thin ice. "So, nuna, did you get that internship you applied for? Minji was telling me you said the interview went ..." 

Soomi is not dissuaded by this abrupt conversational detour, but Jimin appreciates the gesture. 

"What did you do in Seoul, then?" She is intense and focused, turning in her seat so she can look at him. She reminds Jimin, actually, of the lawyers they met sometimes when there were contracts to negotiate: smart and cunning and motives unknown. He never felt comfortable in those meetings and was always glad to let Namjoon and the others take the lead. He imagines she will be very successful in her chosen career. 

Fortuitously, the waiter comes then with the food. There's a moment of disorder as they clear space on the table. There's a lot of passing around of spoons and chopsticks. Jimin really isn't hungry. His stomach kind of hurts actually. He would beg off with a stomachache and go home, but that would mean letting this beautiful young woman who is so ready to scorn him win a victory. 

He isn't ready to withdraw, in spite of everything. 

After the standard pleasantries about the food, in a quiet moment, Jimin says, "I was a singer." 

Jaewon looks up, surprised. 

Soomi tilts her head, like she's misheard him. "A singer?" 

"That's why I moved to Seoul." He clears his throat. "To become a singer." 

She laughs. "Oh, really? So you wanted to be a celebrity?" 

Jimin frowns. When he was a kid his dream sounded as farfetched to him as her tone implies, but they made it. That is undeniable. He can close his eyes and still summon up the feeling -- hot, bright, intense, wonderful -- of standing on the stage at the Gocheok Sky Dome and hearing the roar of the audience. There is nothing else in the entire world he's ever felt that has even come close to that, and nothing can take it away from him. 

"I was," he says, in his most polite interview voice. 

"Huh?" She frowns. 

"I was a celebrity," he says, smiling, perfectly calm. "I was in an idol group called BTS ..." 

It's not like they were universally known but she's the right age that the name should at least ring a bell. She is looking at him like he said he used to be a professional curler -- not outside the realm of possibility, but definitely absurd and nothing she’d have any reason to have heard of. 

He tries again. "Bulletproof Boy Scouts ..." 

She holds her hand up to her mouth to obscure a laugh. "Boy ... Scouts?" 

The name didn't sound nearly so silly when he was sixteen. 

He takes a sip of beer. "Yeah," he says. He's blushing. He hates how easily he blushes, and the alcohol surely isn't helping. "We were pretty big for a while. We toured in the States and Europe and South America. Got an album on the Billboard 200 even." 

"All my friends really liked you when we were in middle school," Minji volunteers, grinning. "I bet if I messaged them right now and told them I was drinking with Jimin from BTS they would all freak out." 

Jimin isn't too sure of that. He doesn't look like that kid any more, and he can't dance like him. He’s just a regular guy now. He wonders if Minji's childhood friends might not be rather disappointed. Probably better they're left with their memories.

"I never really got into idol music," Soomi says, coolly. She is one of those people who has trained themselves to never show the slightest enthusiasm for anything. Jimin hates people like that. "So why aren't you out there singing and dancing now?" 

Jimin blinks. "I got hurt," he says, matter of fact. "Couldn't do it any more. We were on hiatus, and I figured I'd get my service out of the way. And now I make coffee." He smiles. 

Nobody says a word. 

Jimin empties his glass in one long gulp. He turns to Minji. "If any of your friend would want autographs or anything, it would be my pleasure." 

She brightens up. "Really? Thank you!" 

Jimin smiles, and Jaewon thankfully leads them onto firmer conversational terrain. It’s petty and he feels dumb, but so many dreams and delusions have been stripped away. His sweet memories of the old days are all he has left. He can’t give them up so easily.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Enter Namjoon. 
> 
> All future updates should be weekly on Sundays until this thing is done. I would dearly like to know what you think about this so please comment if you're so inclined :)

"I'll have a large breve and a cranberry scone, please," Namjoon says, smiling at the woman behind the counter. Her hair is dyed blue and pink. Namjoon really likes it, and he tells her so. She grins and thanks him. 

Namjoon is done with classes for the week. He has only one on Thursday — Gender and Sexuality in Modern China. It's a great class, one of the best he's taken, but it's also really _hard_. It’s a special seminar, cross-listed as a graduate course, and he’d had to submit a writing sample to get permission to take it. The professor expects all the readings to be done before every class and that they come prepared to discuss. It seems like all of his classmates are two or three times as smart as he is. Their questions are insightful and informed. His English is very good now, but it still takes him a little longer than he’d like to formulate his thoughts into coherent sentences, so he doesn’t contribute as much as he’d like. 

He is going to go home and put in a few hours reading so he can be prepared for the next class, but first he's treating himself to a coffee. There’s no reason not to. His time and his money are entirely his own. He had spent so long needing to be busy, needing to have something to do, someone to help, a song to write, an MV to film ...

It has taken several years and a lot of practice for him to feel okay with putting himself first and with living life a little more gently. 

The barista calls his name when his drink is ready. He smiles and drops a couple of dollars into the tip jar. 

Outside it is bitter cold and very bright. Between the dark shapes of the buildings, the sky is impossibly high and pale. He wraps his scarf tighter and pulls his hat down over the tops of his ears. The streets are ugly. The snow lingering from a storm a few days back is grey now. They're doing construction in front of the business school, digging up the streets and the frozen ground. Orange cones are blocking half the sidewalk. The midday crowds are more intense than usual, as everyone heads to class or home or wherever it is they’re going.

It's chaotic and noisy and he still feels a little lost half the time, but Namjoon loves it. He loves being in school and he loves living on his own and most of all he loves New York City. He feels awful about being _here_ and not in Seoul, but he’s working hard about not feeling so bad about his feelings. 

He takes out his phone. He's got a few new messages: one from his mom (it’s the middle of the night in Seoul so he’ll call her back later) and an email from one of the guys he's collaborating with about the track they're working on. Namjoon will send him the latest version of the track when he gets home. Below that email is one from Yoongi, already a few days old. It’s sitting there at the bottom of his inbox, unread and accusing. 

He's not avoiding any of the guys. He just doesn't talk to them quite as much as he used to. They used to spend every single waking moment together, so of course it's different now. He loves them all, but he's in another country, 12 hours behind Korean Standard Time. It's not so easy to communicate when their night is his morning. 

It's not always so easy to know what to say to them. 

He spent so long feeling burdened by so many things: the group and the other guys and music and fame and on and on and on. He hadn't realized how easy walking away would be until he did it. He looked up and realized that the crushing burdens were hollow and light as air. 

If he misses that feeling of weight at times, it is a fair trade for the freedom he has now. He would not go back. 

He heads down the stairway on Broadway into the subway. The station isn’t crowded. Namjoon stands clear of the platform edge as the train pulls up. It's not full and one of the newer trains, bright and clean inside. He slumps down into an empty seat by the door. The uneasy rocking of the train is soothing. He puts in his earbuds and turns on his music. He’s been in class all day, and was up late the night before composing. Before they're at the next stop, his head is heavy and nodding. 

He dozes until the train starts climbing up the bridge. It's more crowded now. Someone is sitting next to him, an indistinct shape in a black coat. The car's windows are fogged, and it smells like wet wool. They slowly creak upward. Namjoon gets a few seconds to ogle the jewel-toned evening skyline before they're headed back down into the dark underground. 

He gets off at Prospect Park so he can stop at his favorite deli. The streets are quiet. The windows in many of the old brownstones are warm with golden lights. This area has changed, and is changing. Some of those old elegant houses have been dressed up with chic modern touches: new paint, well maintained gardens and big plate glass windows inserted into the old-fashioned facades. There are restaurants and bars on the corners. Caribbean places that have been in the neighborhood for years and expensive places with dim lighting and Michelin stars jostle shoulder to shoulder. 

The deli is bustling when he steps inside, but the owner smiles when she sees him. She is from Daegu. She migrated twenty five years ago and raised a family in Flushing. 

"Ah, Namjoon!" 

He grins. "Hello, auntie," he replies.

"What are you doing out in the cold? You look like your ears are about to fall off." 

She likes to dote on him and he likes to let her, once in awhile. 

"I'm fine, auntie," he says. "I'm on my way home now." 

"You're going to eat udon for dinner again, aren't you?" His diet of take-out is one of her favorite topics of criticism. 

He hangs his head. Two or three times a week, he stops and gets a big, cheap styrofoam container of udon noodle soup with kimchi. It's delicious and hot, and not the worst thing he could possibly eat.

She rings him up and he waits near the deli counter for his soup. Outside, a police siren wails once, twice, and then is silent. She hands him a plastic bag with his food. 

"One day, you have to come to my house so I can cook you a proper meal,” she says. 

"One day," Namjoon says, smiling. 

They repeat this exchange every time he comes in, but they’ve never set a date. 

Ten minutes later he's stepping onto his stoop and digging in his bag for his keys. Namjoon has lived in the same apartment for the past two years. Finding it had been one of those sublime occurrences that don't warrant closer investigation: a friend of a friend was renting a beautiful third story apartment in a Prospect Heights brownstone from an absentee landlord. They needed to move out immediately and were looking for someone to take over the lease. The rent was more than Namjoon really wanted to pay, but incredibly low for the neighborhood. (His initial searches had taken him much further afield, down into Sunset Park and further, and into the far reaches of Queens.) 

He went to see the apartment that day, and wrote the check for the deposit fifteen minutes after walking through the front door of the beautiful old building. The lobby walls are paneled in some dark wood and the floors are tiled in this white interlocking tile that Namjoon really likes (even though the tiles are usually grey with grime tracked in from the street). He checks his mailbox, but there’s just a lonely bill. He heads upstairs and doesn’t see anyone. He only knows his neighbors in passing — smiles in the stairwell, nods when they pass each other in the lobby, the delicious smell of whatever it is that the man on the second floor cooks on Thursday nights. He's fine with that. Those brief glimpses give him enough inspiration to construct imagined lives for these people who he lives so close to and barely knows. 

Stepping into his apartment is a relief. He drops his bag on the floor next to the door and toes off his shoes. Flipping on the light reveals the clutter — books and newspapers on big dining room table (too massive and old for the previous occupant to bother taking with him), a sweatshirt on the couch, sneakers, the box from something he'd gotten delivered the week before tipped on its side, packing peanuts spilling out everywhere. 

He doesn't mind the mess. It feels like an utter luxury to have so much space all to himself. This is an old building, and she wears her age roughly. The parquet floors are scuffed and the kitchen was last updated sometime well before Namjoon was born, but he finds it charming. More importantly, it feels comfortable. It feels like home.

He shoves some of the papers on the table to side, clearing a space. He sets down his food, and gets his laptop from his bag. He slurps down noodles while his laptop boots up. He checks his school email first. He's taking a class about narrative traditions in the East and West, and the professor is supposed to send out their reading every week by Monday morning but she never does. Namjoon would be annoyed, but really he's just relieved to have an excuse to put it off tonight.

He opens up his gmail account and pulls up the newest email from the guy he's working with. Namjoon never meant to stumble into songwriting as a career. He'd always liked contributing to Bangtan's albums, and been proud of much of what he wrote, but he'd never considered himself a _pop songsmith_. He still doesn't, but he stayed in touch with some of the producers and writers he met while working on his own ill-fated American debut, and now he makes a decent living helping craft radio hits for other people under a variety of amusing pen names. 

He uploads the latest version of the file, clicks send, and archives the email. There’s an email from Yoongi right below that. Namjoon hesitates. It’s been sitting there unread for a couple of days. That guilty feeling Namjoon always tries hard to ignore swells. It’s been long enough now that he would feel awkward replying, if he could feel awkward with Yoongi after everything they’ve been through. 

Yoongi's email isn't long, which makes Namjoon feel even worse about not reading it sooner. Yoongi is probably the one he stays best in touch with, because Yoongi doesn't want to FaceTime or talk on the phone. He's fine with emails, which are easier with the time difference and all. He talks a little bit about his radio show, about some of the guests he's interviewed — celebrities that Namjoon would know and be interested in, about the girl he's been dating. Normal stuff. 

But in the very last lines of Yoongi's email he asks if Namjoon has talked to Jimin, and that’s not normal at all. 

_I don't think anyone has really talked to him since he was discharged. Maybe you should give him a call. He might pick up for you._

The guilty feeling that has been sitting in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach for the last few days doubles in size. It’s not like Jimin to ignore everyone. If he’s not answering his phone, there is a reason. It hasn’t been long since he was discharged, but it seems really strange that Jimin hasn’t been in touch with Yoongi or Taehyung at least.

But then, Jimin didn’t end things with Big Hit on the best note. He’d been in a terrible position, of course. There was really nothing good he could have done. Bangtan was on hiatus while Namjoon promoted in the States, and Jimin got hurt. There was talk of solo promotions, but instead as soon as he’d been well enough he’d enlisted.

Namjoon doesn’t even know why. It doesn’t even make sense that Jimin would enlist so early, before he even needed to. But Namjoon wasn’t there, and none of the other guys really wanted to talk about it. He feels bad. How could he not feel bad? It's not his fault that Big Hit thought he could make it in the States. It's not his fault they decided on solo promotions in the US right when Bangtan were at the peak of their popularity in Korea. It's not really anyone's fault that nothing ever came of it other than a few singles that failed to even chart and a string of mid-afternoon slots at dreary radio festivals up and down the East Coast. He's not the first Korean idol to try to break through and fail. He won't be the last.

It's not Namjoon's fault, but he can't shake the feeling that he's done something terrible. 

*****

Jimin wipes the condensation from the mirror with a towel. He scowls at his reflection. Twenty six years old and he still has a baby face. He probably always will. His skin is rough and he needs to shave. He's skinny, not in the kind of shape he used to be in when he danced hours every day. He never considered himself handsome and without the gloss of stylists and professional hair and makeup, he doesn't look like an idol at all.

After shaving and dressing, he eats the breakfast his mother left for him. He washes the dishes and puts them in the rack to dry. He folds up the bedding and puts it in the closet. He is trying to turn over a new leaf. He takes his laptop and sits down at the kitchen table and checks his email. Only spam. He deletes it all. His fingers hesitate on the keyboard. He keeps putting this off, but he needs to do it. He can't keep working at his dad's coffee shop forever. 

The thought of coffee makes him want some. He gets up and puts on the electric kettle. While the water heats, he gets out a cup and one of the packets of terrible instant coffee that his mom uses. For an aspiring barista, he has embarrassingly low standards for his own coffee consumption. He adds an extra teaspoon of sugar to the instant stuff and stirs. It's too sweet and only vaguely coffee flavored, but it work. 

He sits back down. He takes a deep breath and types in the url for the first of the job search sites on his list. He searches first for anything in Busan, but there are too many results. No, he doesn't want to be a part time contract dog groomer. He adds a filter for 'Office and Clerical Jobs'. There's still a lot of results — but that's a good thing, right? He doesn't know what he wants to do, but he knows he doesn't want to make coffee for the rest of his life. He's broken now — he can't dance like he used — and he's old so he figures an office job is as good as it's going to get. Something stable, with a decent salary. That's all he wants. Jimin doesn't need much. 

But the first result is not so encouraging. It's for a temporary position doing general clerical work with a term of six months, and the salary is only W500,000 a month — Jimin makes more than that at the coffee shop. Plus, it requires a bachelor's degree. 

No deal. Jimin finished high school, but that was it. He always thought about following Seokjin's example and taking college classes but they were so busy. He spent so many years running at full speed: practice and stages and tours and recording and interviews and photoshoots and chaos and joy. How could he have fit a college degree in between all of that? 

Other people managed, and he didn't, and now he's screwed. 

The next couple of postings he checks confirm his suspicions. Everyone wants a college degree and experience in a professional setting, even for temporary jobs. He tries another site, but he gets the same results. His only dream had been of dancing and singing. He always thought the kids in school who hoped for boring office jobs were stupid. He realizes now that if you want a good, steady job at a top company you have to prepare as vigorously, and start as early, as any idol trainee. 

Too late for him now. He's old. He could go back to school, sure, but it would be weird sitting there with all the teenagers, if he could even get in. 

He closes his eyes, and sips his too-sweet coffee. Okay. Too early to get discouraged. He's only just started looking. It's not like he really wants to work in an office anyway. There are other things he can do. He's just got to figure out what they are. 

He's not sure who he could ask for advice. His brother? No, he can't bear the thought of that. He could ask his parents, but neither of them went to college. He could ask one of the guys but ... no. He won't do that either, not yet. Besides, what do any of them know about getting a job in the real world?

He doesn't have any other friends. There are a few people from school, from before he went to Seoul, that he keeps in touch with, but after so long they are just casual acquaintances. It's been years now. He wouldn't feel comfortable going to them with this sort of thing. There are so many people over the years who Jimin has called friends: classmates and teachers, fellow trainees, managers, stylists, the staff at the company and at broadcast stations, his brother, cousins, parents, aunts, uncles. The other guys. 

Taehyung.

So many people, and there's not a single one he can ask for help right now. 

He will figure it out on his own. That has always been his way. With enough effort he can do anything, and this is no exception. It is just going to take more time than he thought. 

He puts away his laptop for now. This is not going to be easy, and he needs to think. In the meanwhile he can continue helping his parents at the coffee shop and at home too. He's doing his part to help his mother with the housework. He's not an especially neat person, but there's something he enjoys about cleaning. His thoughts are so disordered that there's some relief, perhaps, in his surroundings being tidy. That's what he tells himself. 

His project this week is cleaning out his bedroom. It is slow going, truth be told. He has no great desire to go back through boxes and boxes of stuff from his idol days. He is tempted, actually, just to throw it all away — but his mother won’t let him. 

"You'll regret that, Jimin," she said. "Just take a look through it all and decide what you want to keep. We'll throw away the rest." 

The first box is mostly clothes. There had always been so many clothes around at the dorms. The stylists gave them things and fans gifted them things and companies gave them sponsored stuff and they all ended up sharing half the time anyway. Jimin's style, thankfully, has always trended towards the simple. Most of this stuff is fine — nothing too fancy, nothing that would seem out of place for a guy working at a coffee shop, albeit a few pieces of much finer quality than he’s used to now. He sorts out the things he'd like to keep, and makes a pile of the things he'll donate. Everything he wants to keep needs to be washed. It smells musty after so long packed away. It's not like he really needs so many clothes any more. He's been living in a few pairs of jeans and a couple of tee shirts, rotating them over and over, but honestly nobody would notice or even care if he wore the exact same thing every day. The apron covers most of it.

There is some jewelry at the bottom of the box: heavy silver stuff that he used to like. Bracelets, and some rings, and a big gaudy chain necklace he doesn't remember owning. Maybe it wasn’t his. He runs the bracelets through his fingers. He knows how much this stuff costs, although he didn't pay for any of it. Most of it was gifts from the fans. He never quite got used to that. He doesn't think he'll have much occasion to wear this stuff any more, but he keeps it anyway, out of respect.

The second box takes longer to sort out. At the top is thick file folder of papers. The first thing in it is his contract with Big Hit, signed so long ago now. That had been one of the happiest, most thrilling days of his life. Back then, seven years had seemed like an eternity. Forever would come and go before their contract would expire. Now, on the other side of 2020, it doesn't seem nearly so long. He'd kept copies of this stuff with him, all the legal documents, anything he was given. He didn't know what was important, and it was all precious to him. 

He doesn't need it any more. If there’s ever any reason to come back and consult this stuff his parents have a copy. The papers flutter out as he drops the whole folder into the trash bag. Beneath the folder are a miscellany of things he's forgotten about and not missed. That alone means he should throw them out, right? There's a stuffed bat toy that Jungkook won at an arcade somewhere overseas — he doesn't remember now. Jimin does remember standing next to Jungkook, hands on the glass of the claw machine, laughing and laughing. He doesn't remember why it was funny. He doesn't remember when or where the bat came into his possession, but he does remember standing there and laughing until his stomach hurt as Jungkook wasted play after play trying to get the stupid toy. 

Jungkook might want it back. Jimin spares it from the trash heap, just in case. 

The next layer of detritus he excavates contains signed albums from hoobae groups, some medals from the ISAC, a thick pile of fan letters, yellowing and faded, some sheets of stickers, a funny headband with devil horns that someone must have given him at a fansign, a book he remembers starting but not finishing, a journal for 2018 that has one entry that reads — in big block letters — 'STILL WAITING'. 

That seems more ominous now than it must have at the time. Jimin doesn't even know what he was waiting for. 

He doesn't need any of it, really. All into the garbage. He doesn't feel bad about throwing away any of it except the fan letters. He hopes for their sakes those fans have moved on.

At the very bottom of the box is a manila envelope full of photographs. He shakes them out and spreads them on the floor. They are glossy publicity shots for a special collaborative stage he did for the Music Core Summer Special — a few of him solo, and others with a group. It wasn't so uncommon for idols from different groups to collaborate. Jimin had done it dozens of times. This stage stands out only because it marks, for him, the beginning of the end. 

He closes his eyes, and he remembers. He remembers everything about that day. 

July in Ulsan and it had been stinking hot. The humidity was heavy in the air, and there were faint clouds in the distance. Jimin knew this weather. It reminded him of childhood. Long, endless summer days when the melodic whir of the fans in shop windows was the soundtrack for games with his brother in the alley outside their building. In the afternoon, his mother would call them inside for a snack and the sky would open up. After the rain ended, he and his brother would go out and splash in the puddles, and the air would smell of ozone and strange new life. 

It had stormed that morning in Ulsan. The rain ended early, but they day was cloudy and hot. An accident closed the highway an traffic backed up for kilometers. Jimin, sitting in the backseat, worried he wouldn’t make it at all. But when they finally got to the venue, he show was set to go on. Jimin had been exhausted. Secretly he’d hoped for a break. He had spent that whole summer exhausted. Every sentence was punctuated with a question mark: would they debut in America? Would Namjoon? Would they tour? Would they release another Korean album? Everything was dependent on something else. They were waiting for the first domino to fall, and in the meanwhile they kept themselves busy with festival performances and variety appearances — some members more so than others. Jimin spent too much time in the practice room, mostly, and the festival performance should have been a nice change of pace. 

That day in particular Jimin remembers not feeling well. Everything seemed off. He hadn't liked the choreography they were doing and hadn't had enough time to practice it. He wasn’t friends in particular with any of the other idols he was collaborating with. He felt awkward and out of place. When it was time for camera rehearsal he let the PA pin a sheet of paper with his name in block letters to his chest. The stage was vast and empty. Water puddled in the low spots. 

He can still remember the choreography he’d never really learned. He remembers the song, although it wasn’t a hit. And he remembers that moment: one misstep in rehearsal, when he’d landed wrong and in a puddle and he’d slipped and his feet had gone out from under him. 

He'd landed hard on his back, breathless and stunned. 

It happened, sometimes. You tripped in a performance. You fell. Jimin hated it — always hated messing up, but he’d learned to get over it. Get up and shake it off and keep going.

He had. They’d paused the rehearsal, but only for a few moments. He'd swallowed some aspirin and performed that night. His fall had been captured by a fan, filming sneakily through a gap in the fence. There had been a minor uproar on social media about the unsafe working conditions idols had to endure, but otherwise the incident was soon forgotten by the general public.

The next morning, back in Seoul, he'd woken up in so much pain he hadn't been able to get up. 

The beginning of the end. 

He closes his eyes. 

After visiting many doctors, he was given a diagnosis of spinal stenosis — a chronic condition he'd aggravated with his fall. Not career ending, necessarily, the doctor had said. It wasn’t a severe case, and he was young. He was prescribed a course of physical therapy, but that hadn't made much difference. Every day, he’d been in pain. When the physical therapy hadn’t helped, the doctor suggested surgery. Just a minor procedure — minimally invasive. He had healed beautifully, the doctor had said admiringly at Jimin’s three month check up. The x-rays all looked good. He barely had a scar. He should have been able to resume normal activity. It wasn’t a death sentence. He should have been able to go back and do everything he could before. 

He never felt the same afterward. He never trusted that he wouldn’t slip and fall and end up in that terrible pain again. The long cultivated trust he’d had in his own body was gone. Now he feels clumsy and slow and robbed of grace. After long days on his feet his back aches. Maybe it's all in his head. Maybe it's just part of getting old and having abused his body for years. Maybe he's just a coward. 

Who knows. 

He throws those pictures away.

He empties the next two boxes into the garbage bag without really taking the time to see what they hold. Whatever it is, he hasn't needed it in two years, and he probably won't need it in the next two, or ever. Memories are fine, but he's trying to declutter. 

His mother makes him take a break for dinner, but he goes back to his task after eating not very much. Hours later, Jimin is still sitting in the middle of the floor. There are more boxes stacked along the wall that Jimin has not yet opened. He should. He just needs to get it over with. He's so tired his eyes sting. His back aches from sitting with bad posture all day. He could take the medicine the doctor prescribed, but he doesn't. He should be able to ignore the pain. He spent so many years doing that. He's done his military service. He should be able to handle it. 

But he can’t handle it. He’s not strong enough. Maybe all of this would be easier if he wasn’t on his own. He just wants someone to tell him he’s going to be okay. It doesn’t need to be true. He would gladly accept a reassuring lie.

There’s nobody who will give him reassurance.

His phone says it's almost midnight. He has to work in the morning.

He needs to go to sleep, but he is shaking and hurt and more alone than he’s ever been in his life. 

The whole house is still and silent. Outside, the cold, winter night is quiet too. It feels like Jimin is the only person for miles around, even with his parents asleep in the next room. He reaches for his phone and unlocks it, pulls up the contact he's looking for. His finger hovers over the call button. He closes his eyes and waits for the terrible tightness in his chest to pass. 

It doesn’t pass. He feels like he can’t get a full breath. He just needs to _talk_ to someone for a few minutes. Just needs to hear something other than the constant, terrible rush of his own internal monologue. 

The phone rings once, twice, a third time, and of course Taehyung isn't going to pick up. With his schedule, he's probably getting every extra second of sleep he can. He probably has an early call. He probably ...

"Hello?" 

The connection isn't good, but the familiar sound of Taehyung’s voice is like a balm, instantly soothing. Jimin takes a deep breath.

"Taehyung? Hi." There is noise in the background — the muffled noise of people laughing and talking and having a good time. Oh. Taehyung must be at a party. "If this is a bad time I can call back ..." 

This was a bad idea. 

"No!" Taehyung says quickly. "No. Jimin. Hi." There's a scuffling sound, like he's moving something out of the way. "Now is fine. Hey, hold on a second." 

Jimin waits. His pulse flutters in his throat. He closes his eyes. It's easier if he can't see anything. He can pretend, maybe, that they're back in the dorm, that Tae is in the next bed over rather than hundred of kilometers and three years away. 

"Sorry," Taehyung says. "Sorry. I'm ... the drama. We're filming on location. Tomorrow is the last day and there's a barbecue party. We're at this lodge in the middle of nowhere on a mountain and it's snowing so hard right now. It's wild." 

"Oh," Jimin says. "I can call back." His voice sounds small and tinny in his own ears. 

"No!" Taehyung says again, insistent. "Jimin, what's going on? Are you coming up to Seoul soon? I can’t wait to see you."

During his furloughs, Jimin either stayed in Daejeon or came back to home to Busan. He hasn’t seen Taehyung in person since the day he enlisted. He can close his eyes and still picture Taehyung standing outside gate to the training center, bundled in a thick coat, waving. A mask had covered his nose and mouth. Jimin had felt like he’d had a vice clamped around his heart, but Taehyung’s eyes had been blank and absent of any expression.

That seems like a very long time ago.

"I'm okay," Jimin says. He tries to sound cheerful and bright even though his pulse is throbbing in his temples, in his finger tips. "You know. Staying my parents. Working at the cafe." 

"Oh,” Taehyung says. He pauses, like he does not know what else to say.

What else is there to say? Jimin’s life is profoundly undeserving of comment. 

What the fuck had he _expected_ Taehyung to say? 

“So how was filming?” he asks. His throat feels tight. He’s made things awkward and the only thing he can think to do is keep the conversation moving. Maybe they will find surer footing. They were _best friends_. “I watched a couple of episodes.” 

“Oh? What did you think? Do I make a good brooding hero?” Taehyung sounds genuinely curious.

“All the high school girls that come into the cafe are in love with you,” Jimin says. “So I guess you’re doing pretty well.” 

Taehyung laughs, loud and awkward. Jimin missed that laugh. “The critics might not like me, but at least the fangirls do. I guess that’s not too surprising.” 

“Do you have anything lined up after this? Since filming is almost over?” Jimin asks. It is a struggle to keep the tension from his voice. He feels that pressure again, like an iron weight pressing down on his rib cage.

“I have a few things in the works,” Taehyung says breezily. “I’ve been reading a bunch of scripts, but I’m gonna take a few months off before I settle on my next project.”

“Ah,” Jimin says quietly. “It sounds like you’ve been working hard.”

“It’s been so wild,” Taehyung says. “We’ve been up here for three weeks and I think it snowed every single day. I got to ride on a snowmobile! It was so fun. I bet you would have loved it.” 

Jimin feels hollowed out. “That sounds really fun,” he says. “I wish I’d been there.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, brightly. He keeps talking: about a trip to a lake, a night shoot, the lonely call of an owl that lives outside the window of his room at the lodge, a new song he’s been listening to, a joke someone made that ruined twenty consecutive takes because nobody could stop laughing. He’s on a roll. Taehyung’s voice is still reassuring, but the things that Taehyung is describing — these colorful and copious minutia of his daily life — are so removed from what Jimin has left that that he feels like he’s politely enduring a conversation with a stranger — someone you encounter at random on a train, in a waiting room. Not the closest friend he’s ever had in his entire life. This life Taehyung is describing isn’t Jimin’s any more. He had a chance. He gave it up, and he can’t get it back. 

It hits him hard, right in his stomach. He hunches forward, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. 

“Jimin? You there, buddy?”  

Taehyung must have finished his story. Jimin needs to reply. Right. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “That sounds really awesome, Tae.” 

There's a thud on the other end of the line, and then someone says, 'Taehyung, hang up and come back to the party. Minhyung got the karaoke machine working!’ 

Taehyung must put his hand over the phone because Jimin cannot hear his reply. 

"Sorry," he says. "That was — sorry, we've been drinking all afternoon and they want me to sing … “ 

“Go,” Jimin urges. He feels sick to his stomach. “I miss hearing you sing.” 

In the very early days, before they were even friends, he and Taehyung had gone to vocal lessons together in the afternoons. They had taken the subway together, dressed in their matching school uniforms, laughing and giddy, confident in the knowledge that fame and fortune were just around the corner. Jimin can remember the golden afternoon light, hazy through the train windows as they crossed the Han River. He remembers his knee brushing Taehyung’s, and his pulse quickening. 

He had fallen in love with Taehyung during those afternoons, although it had taken him a long time to realize it. It had taken him even longer to realize he would never do anything about it, and that even that knowledge was not enough to stop him from loving Taehyung. 

He’s never thought much about heartbreak, but he wonders if that’s what he feels now: there is something horrible and clutching in his chest that is not pain so much as a vacuum.

“Come up to Seoul,” Taehyung says. “We’ll get everyone together and go to a noraebang. Maybe we can even drag Yoongi hyung out of his cave.”

Jimin cannot even imagine going to Seoul and going out with the guys. Besides, even if he did go, it wouldn’t be _everyone_. Those days are gone and they are not going to come back. “You're going to get sick, out in the cold," he says instead.

Taehyung laughs, liquid and lazy. He sounds more than a little drunk, Jimin realizes. "I've got a warm coat. Don't worry. My manager won’t let me freeze.” 

The line crackles with static. Reception isn't good out in the mountains, in the winter, in a storm.

“I’m glad you’re doing so well,” Jimin says. 

Taehyung exhales. “I’m trying,” he says quietly. “I’m trying — before I have to enlist — trying to establish myself I guess. So I have something to come back to. Sometimes I think you were the smart one, going when you did.” 

"Really?" Jimin asks. “You don’t think it was a mistake?” 

There's a long moment of silence. Jimin feels all that silence pressing down on him, massive and growing. 

“I don’t know,” Taehyung says. “I don’t know, Jimin. It’s what you wanted, right?” 

It is not what Jimin wanted. Not at all.

What he wants now is for Taehyung to say he missed Jimin. Just that. Just tell me you missed me and wish I hadn’t gone. Can’t you do that?

But of course Taehyung doesn’t say that. Taehyung is never going to say that because Taehyung doesn’t love Jimin the way Jimin loves him and he’s never fucking going to. 

“I think I should have done what Big Hit wanted. Done the solo album,” Jimin says, too fast, tense. “I don’t think I can go back to them now. I don’t think I have anything to go back to, Taehyung.” 

There is a note of hysteria in his voice he cannot hide. 

Taehyung doesn’t say anything, but Jimin can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, far, far away. 

Jimin his holding his phone so tightly that his hand hurts.

"I’ll let you get back to your party. I’ll call you if I end up coming up to Seoul."

It is so quiet he thinks he can hear the snow falling. 

“Bye, Taehyung-ah.” 

He ends the call and closes his eyes. He is crying hot, silent tears. 

There is nothing left for him. Nothing. 

*****

"Hey hyung," Namjoon says. 

"Well well," Yoongi says. "Look who it is. Mr. New York City." He clears his throat. Muffled but speaking intentionally loud, he says, "No, no, this is an important call. I have to take this one. Just rearrange my schedule. I don't care if you have to tell Yoo Jae Suk to wait I ..." 

"You're such a fucker," Namjoon says, laughing. “Bullshit you’re meeting with Yoo Jae Suk.” 

He can't see it, but he can picture Yoongi's grin. 

"That's no way to talk to your hyung," Yoongi says. "Damn, it's good to hear your voice, Namjoon." 

"You too," Namjoon says. He reaches the end of the block and turns left. It’s a cold day and very early, but he wanted to get out of his apartment. He thought it would be easier to make this call if he weren't at home. He doesn’t understand why, but it is easier somehow, out here on the streets with the city waking up all around him.  
"What's up, Rap Monster-ssi?" 

Namjoon grimaces at his old stage name. 

"I'm not complaining," Yoongi continues. "But it's not like you to just call out of the blue." 

Namjoon shrugs. He’s headed to his favorite coffee shop, down Flatbush Avenue. The streets are still quiet, and the sidewalks are empty. The metal shades are drawn down over the fronts of the stores. It is a peaceful time "Just wanted to say hi." 

That's not the reason at all though. 

"Well then," Yoongi says. "Hi." 

"Hi," Namjoon says. 

It's not awkward, exactly but it doesn't quite feel like old times. 

"I listened to your show the other day," Namjoon says. "You really ask the hard hitting questions. I would never have guessed that so many girl groups prefer Park Bogum to Kim Soohyun." 

"You're just pissed because Kim Sejeong said I was her favorite member of BTS," Yoongi replies, totally deadpan. 

Namjoon laughs, almost a little hysterical. A man in a heavy coat walking his dog gives him a funny look, but he doesn't care. He missed this. God, he missed this. He misses _them_. 

"Seriously, though, Namjoon. What's up?" 

Namjoon hesitates a moment. "What you said about Jimin in your email. Were you serious? Nobody has talked to him?" 

Yoongi is quiet for a moment. "Actually, he called Taehyung the other day."

Relief floods Namjoon. Jimin and Taehyung were always close. If Jimin called Taehyung, that can only be a good sign. 

"Taehyung said he got really upset about nothing and hung up and he hasn't answered any of the times Taehyung called back." 

Or maybe not. 

"What?" 

"I had dinner with Seokjin hyung and Tae the other day,” Yoongi pauses, like he’s considering his next words. “Tae says Jimin called him in the middle of the night sounding all freaked out and existential — you know Taehyunggie likes to exaggerate and he _was_ kind of drunk at the time but, I don’t know, it seems like Jimin was really fucked up ..." 

Namjoon closes his eyes. "Have you called him? Jimin. Have you tried calling him?" He knows the answer, but he has to ask. 

"Of course, idiot," Yoongi says. "I've called, Seokjin hyung has called, Hoseokkie has called. Everyone has called. He won't answer. He'll reply to my texts sometimes, and Hoseok's, but he doesn't say much." 

"That's not like him," Namjoon says. Jimin was always good at putting on a stiff upper lip for the camera, but he would always open up to them.

"Yeah," Yoongi says.

“Has anyone gone down there to try to see him?” Namjoon knows how unfair it is of him to even ask that, when he’s so far away and has done so little. 

“Jin hyung was talking about going down there, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.” Yoongi is silent for a moment. When he speaks again he sounds tired. "You weren't around at the end, man. I'm not saying it's your fault! I'm just saying, you didn't see him at the end. He got pretty messed up after his surgery. Depressed. Bad. Fuck, I know depression when I see it." 

Namjoon closes his eyes. As cold as it is out he feels suddenly colder still: absolutely chilled. He hadn’t had any idea it was that bad. He hadn’t had any idea that Jimin was struggling through so much. The light changed but he does not move to cross the street. 

"Whenever we reached out — me or Hoseokkie or Seokjin or whoever — he just pulled away. Taehyung ... Taehyung was still tight with him, though, right until the end. He’s the only one who Jimin invited when he enlisted. I dunno what happened there. Seems like Tae doesn’t either.” 

"What do you want me to do?" Namjoon says. He runs his hands through his hair. He isn't an idol any more. He's not Bangtan's leader. He's in another fucking country. What is he supposed to do? 

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Yoongi says, sounding a little annoyed. “I thought you might want to know because he’s your _friend_. Fuck, email him or something. He always used to go to you with problems and shit. Maybe he'll talk to you now." 

"Okay," Namjoon says, after a long moment of silence. "I'll call him." He feels guilty, suddenly, and it’s making his stomach hurt. If Yoongi thinks a phone call might make help, he’ll try. That’s really the least he can do. 

"Good," Yoongi says. Then, after a moment, "Your mom said you're coming back this summer." 

“What are you doing talking to my mom?” 

“Your mom loves me,” Yoongi says. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, although it’s true. All moms love Yoongi. "She wants me to come home." 

"Mmm," Yoongi says. "You should. It would be really good to see you. We've gotta live it up one more time before Jin hyung enlists." 

Namjoon "I'm thinking about it. I just ... There's a lot going on with school and stuff. And I'm working on a few things that ..." 

"Hey," Yoongi says, gruffly. "You don't have to make excuses to me. I'm just saying I miss you, alright?" 

Namjoon smiles, but Yoongi’s words make his heart feel heavy. "I miss you too, hyung." 

"Come home then," Yoongi says. 

Namjoon makes a vague noise. He could go and see Yoongi and his parents and sister and everyone he misses so much, but some part of him recoils from the thought. The streets around him are grey and ugly in the winter light, but this is like a fairy land. If he leaves he's not sure he'll be able to find his way back again. 

"Okay, be that way about it," Yoongi says, laughing. 

There's a noise in the background — a door opening, and then someone speaking quietly, and then Yoongi's muffled reply. 

"Listen, Namjoon, I have to go," Yoongi says. 

"Who was that?" 

"Jungeun," Yoongi says. "I mentioned her in my email, remember? She made dinner plans ..." 

Namjoon does remember, but he hadn't realized it was this serious. He hadn't realized they were living together. 

"Oh," he says. 

"If you come back, you can meet her," Yoongi says, quiet and suddenly intent. "I'd like that." 

It hits him, then, that Yoongi is in love with this woman. He is in love with her and it's serious. Somehow, in the back of his mind, Namjoon had convinced himself that everything had frozen while he'd been away. He'd come back to find Yoongi still just the same, still spending his nights in the studio, still staying up too late, still living the same youthful bachelor’s life. 

"I want to," Namjoon says, mostly meaning it. "I’m gonna figure it out. I'll let you go, I guess." 

"Call me again, you fucker," Yoongi says. "Don't be a stranger." 

But after they hang up, that is exactly how he feels. There was a time when he knew every single thing about his guys, but three years is a long time and they’ve changed. He’s changed. How much has he lost in the last three years? Is it too late now to pick the threads of friendship back up? 

He takes the long way to the coffee shop, circling around the back side of the botanical garden and coming up past the Flatbush Avenue sign. Walking makes him feel better. It gives him something else to focus on, at least. He breathes in and out deeply. One thing at a time. Caffeine first, before anything else. 

It's early enough that there's no line. He orders and snags one of the tables near the door. He can watch the traffic on the sidewalk and the couple sitting on the bench with their dogs. The dogs are happy and lazy in the sunshine, tongues lolling. It’s not as complicated as he’s making it, probably. His mother wants him to go back to Korea. Yoongi wants him to go back. Jimin might need his help. There are compelling reasons for him to just _go home_

But when it comes right down to it, Namjoon doesn’t want to go back to Korea. He knows in his heart he won’t go.

It’s taken him a long time to admit that he’s a selfish person. Really, he thinks, everyone is deep down. He was given the chance to shrug off a lifetime of responsibility, and he took it. He’s not ready to give that up quite yet. The privilege was hard enough won. When he came to New York to prepare for his American debut, it had been one of the worst times of his whole life. He’d felt selfish. He was the special one, the one who got to go first, the one with a chance to break through. The others were stuck waiting on him, everything on hold. He’d had no say in what happened and little understanding of why things transpired the way they did. He has excuses — his youth, the language barrier, the intoxicating lure of pop stardom in America — for why he didn’t press harder for answers, advocate for himself more, speak out when he thought things were going off the rails.

The excuses don’t matter. The reality is that the debut was a disaster. Bangtan hasn’t released anything as a group since. 

But, although he’d felt selfish then, the reality is that he’d mostly been doing the bidding of other people. The first time in his entire life that Namjoon had really been selfish is when he had filled out that college application online. He’d done that for himself — not for his career or the group or the company. That first act of selfishness had made it so much easier to be selfish again when he’d gotten the acceptance letter and had to tell Bit Hit that he wasn’t coming back. In that moment he’d had the startling revelation that nobody could _really_ stop him from doing what he wanted. 

He is so much happier now than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

He wonders suddenly if maybe Jimin wouldn’t be happier here too. 

Namjoon has the money for a ticket. He has a place for Jimin to stay. It’s not much, really, but Namjoon’s not sure what else he can do to help his friend. 

And if playing host to an old friend gives him an iron-clad reason for why he can’t go back to Korea — well, that’s all the better. 

*****

Hoseok's show premieres on a Tuesday night in the ten o'clock hour. It has a hybrid travel/talent theme. Hoseok and a group of other celebrities travel the world and explore youth culture while showing off their many talents. Most of the guests are older — a well known actor, a famous comedian, a first generation idol. The idea, as far as Jimin can tell, is for these venerable people to be shocked and amazed at the youth of today. Hoseok is one of the token younger members of the group, included to help bridge the cultural divide. It's a clever concept, and Hoseok seems to get along well with all the members. 

Jimin watches the first episode in his parents' living room, sitting on the floor. His mother watches too, sitting on the couch. He rests his head against her knee. She idly pats his head like he is a child. The group's first trip is to Ibiza, international party mecca. Hoseok is excellent in this format. He charms and entertains, but does so with an endearing level of self awareness. In the first segment, they pair up and go shopping in Hongdae for a clubbing outfit. Hoseok is paired with a nebbish older man — an actor with a reputation for serious, even grim, rolls. After a series of amusing sartorial mishaps, they settle on skinny jeans in cheerful pastel colors and garish patterned tee shirts. Hoseok wears a sweatband. There are a few gratuitous shirtless shots of him ducking behind curtains in changing rooms not quite in time. Hoseok never minded that kind of thing too much. Besides, he looks good. The fans will be satisfied. 

It's a fun show. Jimin suspects it will do well. Everyone dreams of picking up and taking off for distant shores and tropical locations, and everyone is nostalgic for youth, even if not their own youth. 

Especially not their own youth, Jimin reflects. 

When the show is over, his mother changes the channel. Jimin stands up, stiff, and stretches. 

"Going to bed?" she asks him. 

"Mmm," he says. "I'm opening tomorrow." 

"Good night, honey," she says. 

"Good night, Mom." 

He brushes his teeth and changes, but he doesn't go to bed right away. He lays out his blankets and gets out his phone and pulls up KKT. 

_Congratulations Hoseok hyung!!_

Hoseok replies almost instantly. 

_jimin!! did u watch? what did u think?????? (*/▽＼*)_

Jimin smiles. _It was great. I saw a star being born!_

_hdu i'm already a star_

_jk jk_

_i'm really glad u liked it!! thank you for watching (´ ε ` )♡_

_I wouldn't miss it._

_i miss u!! come and visit me!!!!!!_

Jimin hesitates. He misses Hoseok too, so much, but ...

 _I will soon. going to bed now. I'll send you my reactions to next week’s episode too._

He doesn't wait to see Hoseok's reply. He gets up and plugs his phone in across the room, turns off the light, and then lies down. Sleep never really comes, though. 

When his alarm goes off at 5:30 the next morning, he is more tired than when tried to go to bed. He closes his eyes, but the trick of plugging his phone in across the room is that he needs to get up to shut off his alarm. The shrill noise becomes intolerable after a moment. Jimin groans and rolls his aching, stiff body out of bed. Time to begin enduring another day. 

There's a problem with the trains this morning. He waits twenty minute at the station near his house and gets to the cafe at fifteen minutes before they're supposed to open. The first customers are stepping through the door just as he's counting out the till. He is steadily busy until Sunmin shows up at eight, and then things really pick up. 

Things don't slow down until 10. The bar is a wasteland of frothing pitchers and spoons and spilt milk. A forgotten drink (large mocha, skim, no whip) sits on the counter, unclaimed and gone cold. Sunmin sags back against the bar. 

"Wow," she says. "What is up with people this morning?" 

JImin shakes his head. “The coffee gods must be testing us.” He feels pretty tested, for one. 

“I can’t believe that woman wanted eight shots of caramel syrup,” Sunmin says. 

JImin shudders at the thought of so much sugar. "Yesterday I had someone order an extra large mocha with heavy cream, ten sugars, and extra whip on the side." 

Talking shit about the customer's orders is a favorite pastime. 

"Still not as bad as Mr. Red Bean." 

They have a semi regular customer — a young man who dresses well in expensive suits and is always talking noisily on the phone — who orders what is by universal consensus the most most disgusting drink in the universe: red beans, three shots of espresso, foamed soy milk, three pumps of sugar free vanilla syrup. It is gooey and barely drinkable, and looks like something a cat has thrown up. 

Sunmin mimes gagging. Mr. Red Bean gets his drink to go, and all of them are dying to know if he actually drinks the thing (and if so, how? With a spoon?). Jaewon is convinced that the guy is using it in some evil science experiment. 

"Do you want to take your break?" Sunmin asks him. 

Jimin doesn’t really care, but he’ll go since he’s required to take a 30 minute break for every 4 hours of work. 

He steps out the back door into the alley, which is filthy and fragrant with garbage smells. He could go somewhere else, but what’s the difference? He understands why people smoke. He is always searching for something to do out here, something to make it seem like he has something he’d rather be doing than working. Making drinks, at least, makes the time pass quickly. 

He’s sitting on one of the busted crates thinking about what he might do to waste some time after work when his phone rings. He's so startled he nearly drops it. He doesn't get many phone calls, and this call is from an international number.

He is tempted to let it go to voicemail, but he has half of his break left to kill. Dealing with a telemarketer will take some time. 

"Hello?" 

"Jimin-ah?" 

He doesn't recognize the voice at first.

"Hello?" 

"Jimin? It's me. It's Namjoon." 

"Hyung?"

"Hey," Namjoon says. 

It has been so long, but Jimin can picture exactly the way Namjoon smiles as he says that, all white teeth and dimples. 

"Hyung." Jimin swallows. He scuffs his toe against the ground. "Hey. How are you?" 

"I'm good," Namjoon says, and he really sounds good. He sounds as happy and calm as Jimin has ever heard him. "How are you?" 

"I'm ... I'm okay." Jimin doesn't like lying, even by omission, and it's so much harder over the phone than it is by text message.

"Yeah?" Namjoon asks. "What have you been up to?" 

Jimin considers lying about that for a moment, but there's no point when he can't even think of anything interesting to pretend to do. "Nothing, really. Working at my parents' cafe." 

"Ah," Namjoon says. "Yeah." He makes a funny noise like he's clearing his throat. "Yoongi actually told me. He kind of sicced me on you, actually." 

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut. "Typical dad move," he says, keeping his voice intentionally light even though his chest is suddenly tight and thick. Yoongi _sicced_ Namjoon on him? What the fuck? He keeps in touch with Yoongi. He’s not … things aren’t that bad, are they? Is it that obvious, even to Yoongi? 

"Yeah," Namjoon agrees. "He said none of them have seen you since you got out." 

Jimin swallows again. "I just ... I've been busy working. I know it's not that far up to Seoul but they're all busy and I'm trying to ... " 

"I get it," Namjoon says. His voice is deep and calm. "I haven't seen any of them in even longer." 

Jimin exhales shakily. "Yeah." 

"I understand," Namjoon says. "Kinda. I mean, Taehyung is a _movie star_. I'm a college student, Jimin. I carry a backpack. I go to class. I have _homework_." 

Jimin smiles at the image that pops into his head of Namjoon, full grown but wearing an elementary school uniform and carrying a brightly colored backpack featuring a cartoon character. 

"My mom's been pressuring me to come back to Seoul this summer," Namjoon says. 

"Oh," Jimin says. He hasn’t seen Namjoon in three years? Maybe four? He remembers the going away party they had before he went off to America for that first time — barbecue and laughter and all of them still thinking it was just a temporary hiatus. Was that the last time? He isn’t sure.  
However long it’s been is long enough that the sting of betrayal has faded. Jimin remembers with total clarity the moment he found out that Namjoon _quit_ , but it is a strange, remote memory now, like something he saw on tv. Like something that happened to someone else.

"I don't really want to go back,” Namjoon says. “There’s a class I want to take, kind of , and …” He trails off. 

"Oh," Jimin says, again. 

Namjoon is silent for so long that Jimin wonders if he's hung up. He doesn't have much time left before he has to go in so Sunmin can take her break. It's getting hotter and there's a nasty smell rising from the dumpster at the end of the alley.

"Come to New York and stay with me," Namjoon says.

"What?" Jimin says. “Hyung, I can’t just …” 

"Come to New York and stay with me," Namjoon says insistently. "I miss you." 

"I feel fine," Jimin says, automatically. “Hyung, I can’t just drop everything and come hang out with you in New York. I have work. I have …” 

"I’m sure your parents could find someone to cover your shifts,” Namjoon says. 

Jimin scrubs his fingers through his short hair. "Yeah, but … I have stuff to do.” It sounds lame even to him. 

"What?” Namjoon asks. 

“My brother is getting married,” Jimin says. 

“When?” Namjoon asks. 

“In the fall,” Jimin says. 

"So come for a little while,” Namjoon says. “I know the distance helped me. Maybe getting away for a while will help you too." 

Jimin remembers New York as a blur of tall buildings set closer together than in Seoul and bright lights. He remembers the bright hot intense rush of concerts, the triumphant euphoria of after-parties in restaurants closed down for their exclusive use, jet-lagged mornings he spent sleeping although Time Square was just a few blocks away. 

Even a place halfway across the world is bound up in memories of the group. Jimin isn't sure if there's any place he could go that could get him far enough way. 

“How long would I stay? What am I supposed to do while you’re in class? What am I going to …” 

"Don’t worry so much," Namjoon says. "That’s supposed to be my job. Just … don’t worry about the details now. I’ll pay for your ticket over. When you’re ready, you can buy your ticket home. Just come and take some time and figure stuff out.” 

“You don’t have to pay for me.”

“I want to,” Namjoon says. “I just want to help you out. I miss you, Jimin.” He sounds insistent and concerned. 

Jimin closes his eyes. On the schedule hanging in the back room of the cafe, his shifts are marked out for the next two weeks. He pictures months and months of schedules, stretching out into the future, with his name neatly typed and underlined. It’s almost unbearable. Nothing interrupts that long vista. 

What is he going to _do_ if he stays here? 

“I guess I could use a vacation,” Jimin says, staring down at his feet. “I’m scheduled out for the next couple of weeks. I’d have to talk to my dad about taking time off from the cafe.”  

That sounds so sad and small he is ashamed as soon as he says it. 

“I didn’t expect you to fly out tonight,” Namjoon say, laughing. “Check out flights. Figure out what works. You’re always welcome here, Jimin. Any time you want.” 

“Okay,” Jimin says. His voice is wooden. “Thanks, hyung. I’ll look into it.” 

Namjoon exhales loudly. He sounds tired too, and Jimin wonders if he’s been taking care of himself. “It’s the least I can do, Jimin. I’ll see you soon, right?” 

It’s so ridiculous. Jimin can’t just pick up and go to New York. But at the same time he longs for that feeling of freedom — getting on a plane and flying far, far away. Maybe … maybe some distance is what he needs. Maybe. 

“Sure,” he says, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, Namjoon hyung.” 

It would be crazy for him to just pick up and go to New York, but It’s nice to have something to dream about again. He goes back in for Sunmin to take her break, and has a few orders right away. When it calms down again, after he’s wiped down the bar, he pulls up Naver and searches for one-way flights from Incheon to New York City.

It wouldn’t be the craziest thing he’s ever done. 

It won’t be the first time he runs away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! Things are starting to happen :) 
> 
> Once again, thank you so much to everyone who is reading and please comment, if you are so inclined. I would very much love to know what you think!

On a rainy evening early in March Namjoon takes the A train uptown to Penn Station after his last class. The long-debated new station is under construction but far from finished. For now he waits for the LIRR to Jamaica in the old low, dark, subterranean hall, packed in with all the other damp commuters. The train pulls up, the doors slide open, and they shuffle in. He stands, gently swaying, hanging on to the overhead rail with one hand. The train trundles through the dark tunnels before emerging into the dusky open evening on the other side of the river. Everyone is quiet, attention focused on their phones or tablets, earbuds in, blocking out the world. 

When he gets off at Jamaica, it's still drizzling. He pulls up his hood as he walks down the platform to the escalator. The AirTrain is empty, so he gets a seat and watches the blurry further reaches of Queens through the rain-spangled windows. A man at the far end of the car hunches over an enormous number of suitcases. Namjoon wonders how he managed to get them all on the train. Back when he was a frequent traveler, he had managers to help with that kind of thing.

He gets off at Terminal 1. He's got some time to kill, so he wanders around the arrivals level. He's always liked airports. He likes seeing how people travel — what they wear and how much they bring with them and whether their expressions are patient or frustrated or anticipatory. There’s only so long he can people watch, though. After he gets bored he heads to Starbucks and gets a cup of coffee. He sits at a table in the corner and reads a few chapters of the book he's been assigned for his expository writing class. It's a good book, and he gets engrossed. When he next looks up to check the time, Jimin's plane has just landed. 

Namjoon smiles. The plane isn't even at the gate yet and he knows how long it can take to clear immigration and customs, but Jimin is _here_. Namjoon has missed Jimin just like he’s missed all of them, but it’s been an abstract longing. He hasn't felt it viscerally until right now, with Jimin so close. 

He’s filled with a strange, nervous energy. Maybe it's low blood sugar. He could use some dinner but he figured Jimin might want to eat after the flight. He’ll order something when they get home. He does a few more laps of the arrivals hall. He’s nervous, and he doesn’t quite understand why. Jimin has his phone, but he won't have service over here, and Namjoon isn't sure if he'll think to connect to the wifi in the rush of deplaning. 

He'll just wait. Everyone comes out the same way. 

It takes forever. Finally, people start trickling out of customs: exhausted men in crumpled suits, families with bawling children, young people, grandmothers, a woman in a wheelchair with one leg in a cast. Every time he sees someone with approximately the right height and build Namjoon perks up. Is it Jimin? But none of them are. He worries, irrationally, that they might not recognize each other. 

But then there's Jimin, coming through the double doors, wearing black skinny jeans and a baggy white tee shirt and a grey hoodie that's too big. He looks just like he always has, except not. He isn't the round-faced child that Namjoon remembers from that first meeting so long ago, and he looks less polished than he did as an idol, as if some of the gloss has worn off. It doesn't matter. Namjoon knows that feeling. The important thing is that he's _here_. 

When Jimin finally sees him he smiles that that brilliant smile that lights up his entire face. 

"Hyung!" 

Namjoon pushes through the crowd, not all that worried about being polite, and then Jimin is right in front of him. They grin at each other like fools, and then Namjoon throws his arms around Jimin. It’s a little awkward. He doesn’t care. He always loved how Jimin seemed just the right height for a hug. 

"Hyung," Jimin says, face pressed against Namjoon's shoulder. "Hi." 

"Hey, Jimin," Namjoon says, quietly, lips moving softly against Jimin's temple. His heart feels full and strange. 

They stand there like that for a little too long. Namjoon doesn’t care. It feels like years of longing are about to wash him away, and Jimin is the only thing he can hold onto in the face of the flood. 

Finally, they break apart. At arm's length, Jimin looks older and very tired. The lines of his face are sharper. He's all cheekbones and jawline, even puffy from the long flight. There are terrible plum-colored bags under his eyes, and the suggestion of a five o'clock shadow shades his chin. 

"You look good," Namjoon says, gruffly. "All grown up." 

Jimin ducks his head and grins. His cheeks color. Namjoon forgot how easily he blushes. 

"Shut up," Jimin mumbles. “You look good too. I like the glasses.” 

Namjoon grins. "How was the flight?" 

"Long," Jimin says. "Really, really long. How did we do that so often back in the day?" 

Namjoon shakes his head. Back then it was nothing to fly over here, film a MV, hold a concert, and hop in the plane to fly back the next morning. He doesn't know either. He couldn’t do it now. "We were young and full of youthful vigor then," he says, mock wistful, like Jimin isn't only twenty-six and he himself isn't just a year older. “Do you have your bag?” 

Jimin smiles and rolls his eyes. He’s got his bag, of course, but Namjoon has to ask. Jimin has never quite lived down that trip to Scandinavia. It’s nice that the old in-jokes still have some currency. 

They walk together in silence towards the train. It's the kind of silence that is full, not empty. Still, there’s a lot to say. Namjoon doesn't even know how to begin, so he goes with something simple. 

"I'm really glad you came," he says. 

Jimin scoffs, feigning annoyance. "As if you gave me a choice." Then, a moment later he says gently, "Thanks, hyung. Really. Thank you." 

Namjoon smiles hesitantly. “It’s the least that I can do,” he says. All of this — everything bad that happened to Jimin or to any of them — can be traced back to him, somehow. This is the smallest gesture. It is not much, but at least he can start to make amends for that old failure.

*****

Jimin is in a daze by the time they get to Namjoon’s apartment. His limbs are so heavy. Everything is strange and surreal. He tried not to sleep on the plane and he is dead tired now, but his internal clock is screaming that it's the middle of the day. New York is cold and windy and wet and nothing like he remembers. Namjoon is almost exactly like he remembers, except his hair isn't dyed, and that is strange too.

Naive, he had thought he would step off the plane and the sun would be shining in a blue sky and he would see Namjoon and the world would wonderfully, magically make sense. 

It doesn’t yet, but it is good to see Namjoon again. 

Namjoon unlocks the door to an apartment on the third floor. As soon as Jimin steps inside, he laughs.

"You're still kind of a mess, hyung," he says, grinning. 

Namjoon looks sheepish. "I was going to hire a cleaning service but ..." He shrugs. 

Jimin shakes his head. "It's fine. This place is great, hyung." 

He's never seen a place that is so _Namjoon_. Rather than being built, it looks like it grew up organically around him. There are books everywhere: all over the big table and stacked on the floor, open, closed with receipts marking the page, dog-eared, well-loved and brand new. The building is old and a little rough around the edges, but the ceilings in Namjoon’s apartment are tall and the windows are big and let in lots of rainy evening light. 

"It’s pretty great,” Namjoon says, smiling. “I never want to move again.” 

Jimin nods, dazed and in wonder. He knows, of course, that Namjoon has been in the States for a long time now, but it never occurred to him before that maybe this is Namjoon’s _home_. He realizes suddenly that somewhere, buried deep inside his heart, he always thought — or hoped, maybe — that Namjoon would come back to them and make things right. 

"Are you hungry? Do you want to eat?"

Jimin is hungry, he realizes. "Yeah," he says. "I couldn't eat the plane food." 

Namjoon gets out his phone. "What do you want?" 

Jimin shrugs. "I don't care. Whatever you think is good." 

Namjoon orders them Mexican while Jimin inspects the rest of his apartment. It's bigger than most of the dorms they all shared — seven members and a manager. "You live here all by yourself?" 

"Yeah," Namjoon says. "It's a sublet. I found it through a friend and he gave me a great deal." 

"Nice," Jimin says. There are framed photographs on the walls in the living room, and some paintings that are too abstract for Jimin to really appreciate. An odd jumble of vinyl toys and empty bottles and gewgaws sit on a white plaster mantel over a boarded up fireplace. On the far wall, behind the very large and modern looking couch (too big and black and clean looking in this old, shabby apartment) there is a framed poster — colorful squares laid out neatly on a white background. 

It takes Jimin a moment to realize that it's the covers all of their releases, every single one — even the Japanese editions. 

"Wow," he says, moving closer to get a better look. "Did you have this made?” He doesn't remember any official merchandise like this.

Namjoon stands right beside him, so close their arms are touching. "A friend of mine made it for me," he says. "I haven't told everyone about ... y'know. The idol thing. But I was talking to her about it one night, trying to explain what it had been like, and a few weeks later she gave me this." 

"I love it," Jimin says, and he does, but the idea that Namjoon has a friend that is close enough to make him this present is strange. For so long they were _each other's_ best friends. Nobody new worked their way into Jimin’s life, but he isn’t sure why he expected it to be the same for all the others. 

All those years apart are lurking just outside the circle of light cast by their conversation, waiting to sneak in and fill up the space between them with silence and unfamiliarity.

"It's weird," Namjoon says. "It seems like there should be more than that, doesn't it? We worked so hard, for so long ..." 

Jimin nods. "Yeah," he says. He presses his finger against the glass, over the box in the lower right corner. That last release, before Namjoon left, when things had still seemed so good, so full of promise. "Yeah, it does seem like there should be more." And there could have been, maybe, except … 

Well. Except he enlisted. Except Namjoon left. 

Namjoon's phone buzzes. The food is here. 

The burrito Namjoon ordered him smells good and tastes better. They eat sitting on the couch, leaning forward over the coffee table, knees bumping. Namjoon turns some music on, something rhythmic and strange and slow. Jimin is so tired that his eyes keep closing in spite of himself. The plastic fork feels heavy in his fingers. 

Namjoon pokes him in the shoulder. "You're falling asleep," he says, voice light. 

"Mmmm," Jimin says, blinking. "Tried to stay up on the plane so I'd be sleepy now." 

"Looks like it worked," Namjoon says, smiling. He gets up to put the leftovers in the fridge.

Jimin closes his eyes and stretches, arching his back. He's a little sore, but it's not too bad, considering how long he sat on the plane. He had worried it would be worse. He’d brought pain medicine, just in case, but he hadn’t needed to take any. 

"Um," Namjoon says. "Sooo … you can sleep on the couch, or I have an air mattress. Queen sized, so we can share." 

Jimin laughs. "Wow," he says. "What luxury. You really know how to treat a guest, hyung." 

Namjoon hangs his head, a little sheepish. 

“The air mattress, I think," Jimin says, slowly. He thinks it will be better on his back, and besides, he doesn't really want to sleep alone. He spent so long sharing a room in the dorm that it was strange and weird in his own little room at the boarding house in Daejeon. It was strange even to be in his bedroom at his parents’ house without his brother there. "If it's okay." 

"Of course," Namjoon says. "Just like old times." 

When they were trainees, in the crucible of debut preparation, they slept seven to a room. Jimin hadn’t minded it then. He doesn’t think he’ll mind it now. 

Jimin brushes his teeth. His reflection looks bad in the mirror over the sink — tired, pale, and he needs a shave. Namjoon must think he's a mess. He splashes water on his face. Namjoon's towels are droopy and in need of a wash, but it's no worse than it used to be at the dorm. 

Those years, that life has become his baseline for so many things, even though it will never come back. He wishes it would. He misses it so much. Face pressed into the towel, his eyes sting and his chest throbs for just a moment, until he tamps it down. He’s just overtired. He splashes cold water on his face and breathes. He can do this.

Namjoon's bedroom is big and empty. Clothes spill out of the closet. The air mattress sits right in the middle of the floor. The walls are painted dark, but warm orange light from the street shines through the lowered blinds, striping the bedding. Namjoon smiles at him, and waves a hand towards the bed. 

"I even washed the sheets," he says proudly.

Jimin rolls his eyes. "Thanks," he says, smiling. 

"I'm gonna stay up and work for a while," Namjoon says, one hand on the doorframe. "Just make yourself at home." He discretely pushes some dirty clothes aside with his foot. 

Jimin nods. "Thanks, hyung." His head feels heavy and his heart feels heavy too. "Really, hyung. Thank you so much." 

He can't help it. He hugs Namjoon. Namjoon looks startled, but then he eases into it. He rests a hand in the small of Jimin’s back, which is good because Jimin is so tired he's swaying. 

"Go to bed, Jimin-ah," Namjoon says. "I'll be in later." 

Jimin nods. Namjoon shuts the bedroom door as he leaves. The air mattress isn't comfortable, but Jimin is so exhausted it doesn’t matter. He is asleep in moments. 

Sometime later, Jimin wakes in the dark, unsure of where he is. The door creaks open and then closes. The mattress rolls and sways as Namjoon slips under the blankets. Jimin doesn't open his eyes, but he can feel the heat of Namjoon's body and hear his breath, slow and steady. They lie on separate sides of the mattress, but then Namjoon shifts and they both roll towards the center. Jimin opens his eyes as his shoulder smacks into Namjoon's chest. Namjoon's eyes are scrunched shut, and his nose is wrinkled, but he’s grinning. 

"Hyung," Jimin whispers. "Why don't you just buy a regular mattress?" His voice sounds loud in the dark silence. 

Namjoon huffs out a laugh. "I keep meaning to. I can go sleep on the couch." 

"No," Jimin says, "It's fine. It's good." 

Namjoon shuffles so that they are back to front. His arm rests heavily on Jimin's waist. It's comfortable and close. He can feel Namjoon’s chest rise and fall, a soothing rhythm. Jimin closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. 

He wakes up after thirteen hours, still groggy. Namjoon is gone. Jimin’s head feels heavy and his eyes feel gritty and he needs to piss. There is a note from Namjoon on the table. His handwriting is even worse than Jimin remembers, but then maybe he doesn’t have much occasion to write in hangul these days. Namjoon has gone to class, the note informs Jimin, but he’ll be back this afternoon. In the meantime, Jimin is told to make himself at home. 

He wants to shower, but he’s also too tired and he can’t find any clean towels. He washes his face but it doesn’t do anything to make him feel better. He eats the leftover Mexican food from the night before sitting at Namjoon’s messy table. He messages his mom to let her know that he is okay. He tries to summon up the energy to do something — anything — else but he can’t. 

He goes back to sleep. 

He wakes up again. It is night now. He can hear the television in the other room. He gets up slowly. The floors are cold underfoot. Namjoon is sitting on the couch with his laptop on his knees. He looks up and smiles. 

“Hey,” Namjoon says. “How are you doing?”

“Tired,” Jimin mumbles. 

“Go back to sleep, then,” Namjoon says. “You don’t need to get up. I figured we could go out tomorrow.” 

Jimin makes an indistinct noise. He doesn’t want to be alone. He’s so tired of being alone. Instead he goes and lies down on the couch. His head is by Namjoon’s thigh, and his toes are hanging off the edge. Namjoon lets a hand rest lightly on his shoulder. 

“Is there anything you want to do tomorrow?” Namjoon asks. “We can go wherever you want.” 

Jimin closes his eyes. He’d meant, at some point, to come up with a list of things to see and do during his time here, but he never got around to it. 

“I don’t care,” he says drowsily. “Sleep. All day.” 

Namjoon laughs. “Really? That’s it? You came all the way over here so you could sleep?” 

Jimin doesn’t know why he came. He is too tired to figure it out. Just being with Namjoon is reason enough. “Jus’ sleepy,” he says. 

“Alright,” Namjoon says. “Go to sleep.” 

Jimin closes his eyes. He feels calm and still, insulated from all his troubles by distance and exhaustion and by Namjoon’s presence. He sleeps. 

*****

Those first few days pass in a narcoleptic haze. Jimin doesn't remember taking so long to recover from jet lag as a kid, but maybe age is getting to him. He sleeps all day on Namjoon's air mattress, sheets tangled around his feet. He wakes up in the afternoon, when the winter sun is already low and the afternoon light is dim. Namjoon flits in and out silently. He has class during the day, Jimin learns, and he works in the afternoons but he makes sure to be home by 5 or 6. The day Namjoon doesn’t have class, they go on a trip to the Brooklyn Museum. They order takeout and watch television and listen to music and make small talk that grows less and less awkward. After a few hours awake, Jimin is ready for bed again. 

But after a few days Jimin has started to adjust. He wakes up on his fourth day in New York City overheated, having kicked all the covers off. The weather has turned cold, and the building manager turned on the radiator. Jimin rolls around on the air mattress, trying to wake up. It sways like he's on a ship at sea, wobbling as his weight shifts. It was too hot under the covers, but the wood floors sting his feet with cold. He pulls on a pair of socks. 

Namjoon has gone to class again. There's a little food in the fridge — not much, but Jimin isn't really hungry — and a pot of cold coffee. He makes himself some toast and sits on the couch and checks his messages on his phone. He doesn't have many — one from his mom, one from his brother, one from Yoongi he doesn't want to answer. 

He has one from Taehyung that he deletes without reading. 

He feels so dumb doing it, but there's something wild and strange inside of him that gets all churned up at the sight of Taehyung's name, that makes him feel like he's being held upside down and shaken, emotions threatening to come tumbling out.

He puts his phone down face down on the table and turns on the television. He flips through the channels, understanding nothing, ignoring the rushing in his ears. It’s all boring and incomprehensible, and with nothing better to do he falls asleep. 

He wakes up much later with the imprint of one of Namjoon's knitted throw pillows pressed into his cheek. 

Namjoon is sitting on the couch beside him. He looks up, and his dark eyes are happy. 

"It's really weird having someone here when I get home," he says. 

Jimin feels his stomach lurch. "Sorry," he mumbles into the cushion. 

"No," Namjoon says. "It's good. I really like it. I guess I just didn't realize how much I got used to being alone." 

Jimin sits up, tucking his feet under him, and brushes his hair out of his eyes. He's wearing sweatpants and a sweater with too long sleeves. He pushes them up, and they fall back down.

"I felt that way too," he says, after too long a pause. "When I was enlisted. I was living in this boarding house and ... yeah. I didn't talk much, I guess. It was weird moving back in with my parents, having to see them every day. And even that’s quiet compared to the old days." 

Namjoon nods. His eyes are fixed on the television screen. He wears glasses all the time now, a pair with gold frames that catch the light as he moves his head. “We were kind of loud.”

That’s an understatement. 

Now, they are quiet. Namjoon fidgets with some little piece of paper in his hand, folding and unfolding it.

"Jimin-ah, I'm sorry,” he says, not looking away from the television. “For how it all played out. I wish ... I didn't want things to end the way they did. I really thought we were going to make it over here." 

Jimin swallows. "I know, hyung. It's not your fault.” 

"It sort of is," Namjoon says stubbornly. 

Jimin shakes his head. "It doesn’t matter now, hyung," he says. "It was brave of you. I always thought that, you know. You were so brave. I can’t … I couldn’t have done it on my own. I couldn’t even try." 

"Me?" Namjoon seems surprised. He laughs, but it doesn't sound that happy. "I don't think I thought enough about it to feel brave. It all happened so quickly. I didn’t even know what was going on." He breathes out through his nose, loud. "I wish ... It’s not like it was anyone’s fault, I guess. I just wish things had worked out differently, you know?" 

Jimin thinks about Hoseok and Yoongi, about Jin and Jungkook, and about Taehyung. Especially Taehyung. Jimin thinks about his injury, and about his service, and about all the grey unhappy days he has passed since Namjoon came to New York to prepare for his American debut. 

He wishes things had worked out differently too, but he won't tell Namjoon that. 

"It's okay," he says. "All that is in the past. I'm here now." 

Namjoon looks immediately relieved. "Yeah," he says. "I'm really glad you're here, Jimin-ah." 

Jimin smiles. “Me too, hyung.” He feels like he should say more, but leaving it at that is okay, too. Namjoon understands. 

They watch television for a little while longer. Jimin rests his head on the pillow, and before he knows it his eyes have closed and he has fallen asleep again. 

It is night when he wakes up. The television is off and Namjoon has pulled a blanket over him. It's a little chilly, but he feels safe and calm in the unfamiliar dark quiet of Namjoon's apartment. He curls up, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and goes back to sleep. 

When he wakes up again it is morning and the light is strange and bright. It snowed overnight and when he looks out the window the streets are white and snow outlines the still bare branches of the trees. 

"Good morning," Namjoon says, smiling. His glasses are slipping down his nose. His laptop is open on the table in front of him, and he has a cup of coffee. 

"Coffee," Jimin says, inarticulate, making grabby hands. 

"In the kitchen," Namjoon says, laughing. "Help yourself." 

Namjoon's apartment has a galley kitchen that is outdated and cramped, but is also empty enough to be clean. The linoleum is cold underfoot. Jimin pours himself a cup of coffee and then joins Namjoon at the table. 

"How'd you sleep?" Namjoon says, looking up. "I didn't want to leave you on the couch but you looked so peaceful I couldn't bring myself to wake you up." 

Jimin stretches, arching his back. "Not bad," he says. "No worse than the air mattress. I can't believe you’ve lived here for two years and you haven't gotten a bed yet, hyung." 

Namjoon looks sheepish. "I'm working on it," he says. "You look better. No more raccoon eyes." 

Jimin wrinkles his nose and takes a sip of coffee. 

"Hey," Namjoon says. "Do you want to walk over to the park later? We probably aren't going to get any more snow this year and it would be nice to enjoy it before it turns into grey slush." 

Jimin nods. "Sure," he says. "I'm gonna have to borrow a coat, though." He hadn’t pack for winter weather.

He can’t remember the last time he played in the snow.

Later but early still, wearing a puffy coat of Namjoon's that comes down to his knees, Jimin steps outdoors. He brings a hand up to shade his eyes. Namjoon, a stocking cap on his head, grins at him. It is cold and brilliant out, and wind kicks up little swirls of snow that twist through the air. The streets are not plowed yet, and the sidewalks are pocked with footprints of earlier intrepid adventurers. 

For the first time since he got off the plane — for the first time in a long time — Jimin feels good: awake and alert and happy to be where he is, on this bright snowy morning with Namjoon. 

Namjoon bends down in one quick motion and packs a handful of snow between his gloved palms. He grins and then throws the snowball weakly at Jimin. It hits him in at thigh height, and slides down to the ground. 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "Oh, you don't want to start a snowball fight with me, hyung!" 

He scoops up a snowball of his own. He doesn't have gloves and the snow is cold and wet in his hands. His fingertips tingle, but he packs a good snowball and throws it at Namjoon, who is retreating to the other side of the stoop. It his him square in the back and he flails, arms flying. He catches himself on the railing and says, eyes narrowed but smiling. "It's on, Park Jimin.” 

He hurls another snowball and Jimin, laughing, turns to flee. 

This is ridiculous. They’re grown men having a _snowball fight_. But Jimin cannot remember the last time he let himself laugh with such abandon. He can’t remember the last time he had so much fun. Namjoon makes a stand at the end of the block, hiding behind the next door building’s garbage cans. He launched a barrage at Jimin. The snow is so soft and light that his missiles just dissolve mid-flight. The air shimmers with snow. Jimin puts up his arms to block, advancing. Namjoon cracks up, but as he realizes he’s backed himself into a corner his expression turns alarmed. He steps out from behind the garbage cans. Jimin feels like he’s been dusted with powdered sugar — snow all over his hair and his coat. Namjoon takes a step backwards, eyes wide and color high in his cheeks. Jimin laughs and lunges and catches Namjoon around the waist. 

They fall into a drift of snow and lie there for a moment, both panting. Jimin feels sweaty and too warm under his coat and heavy clothing. 

“I won,” he says. 

Namjoon laughs silently. “For now, Jimin-ah,” he says, “Rematch when we get to the park.” 

Jimin grins. “You’re on, hyung,” he says.

He rolls off Namjoon and gets to his feet, and then reaches to give Namjoon a hand up. Some snow has gotten down his collar. He’s wet and tired and cold, but he cannot remember the last time he felt so good and so alive.

*****

"You're sure you're okay?"

Jimin looks small and pale in his black hoodie, but his expression is stern. "Hyung, I'll be _fine_. I'm just going to fall asleep watching tv again. If I get hungry there's food." 

"I just feel bad leaving you here by yourself," Namjoon says. 

"You leave me when you go to class," Jimin says. 

"Yeah," Namjoon says, feeling stupid and stubborn. "But that's just for a few hours. I might be gone a while. These guys are night owls. Worse than Yoongi hyung used to be! If they get going with something we might go all night.”

Jimin just rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine. Go," he says, pushing Namjoon towards the door. Namjoon melts, going limp, leaning into him. Jimin staggers and giggles. "Go, hyung!" 

Namjoon clings to the doorframe. Jimin bumps his head into Namjoon's shoulder.

"I don't want to leave you, Jimin-ah," Namjoon moans. He doesn’t act silly very often. It feels nice. 

When is the last time he's had someone he could joke around with like this?

"I'll be waiting for you," Jimin says. He's still pushing at Namjoon's shoulder, and his cheeks are all flush, just like they always used to get when he got overly happy or embarrassed. "Go out and make some hits, hyung." 

Namjoon, laughing too, steps out the door. "Text me if you need anything." 

Through the closed door, Jimin calls, "Get out of here, hyung!" 

Namjoon is giddy and overheated, and the cold night air is a shock. He pulls his scarf more tightly around his neck. They haven't gotten any more snow, but the cold spell isn't expected to snap until the weekend, and the sidewalk is covered in a sheet of dismal grey ice. 

It has been a week since Jimin arrived, but it feels like much longer. 

Namjoon hadn't realized how much he missed Jimin. How much he misses all of them. He has friends, and he has his work, and he has school, but none of those things have the pure and bright clarity of emotion he feels when he gets home from class and sees Jimin sleeping on the couch. 

It's not what he was expecting — Jimin is not the same — but it's still _so_ good.

The subway pulls into the station only a minute or two after Namjoon gets to the platform. He pulls out his headphones and slips them on, and plays the track he's working on, the track he's going to the studio to share with a few of the guys he collaborates with. He's not totally satisfied with it, but Namjoon is rarely totally satisfied. Like Plato's shadows, his songs are dim echoes of the compositions he hears in his head. Experience has taught him how to come closer to capturing what he imagines on tape, but he still falls short every time. 

He gets caught up in the song, jotting notes into a little notebook he keeps in his bag, and by the time he looks up they're at Canal street. It's eight thirty when Namjoon opens the door to the studio. He ducks his head inside and looks around. Adam is at the monitor, headphones on, and Caleb is playing something on a keyboard someone's set up behind the couch. They look up when Namjoon walks in. 

"Hey, Namjoon," Caleb says. "What's up? Where have you been?" 

Namjoon clasps Adam's offered hand and slides into the seat next to him. "Sorry," he says. "An old friend of mine is staying with me for a while. He's got jet lag pretty bad so I've been on a weird schedule." 

"Is this one of the dudes from your dark boy band past?" Adam asks. "Are we finally going to see you get your N*SYNC on?" 

Namjoon rolls his eyes. It's not like he's ever _forbidden_ them from looking up BTS videos. He's played them some of the songs. He’s not embarrassed. He just doesn't like to think about it very often. 

"I have never _gotten my N*SYNC on_ ," he says with as much dignity as he can manage. "I was a pretty bad dancer anyway. Jimin — that's my buddy — he's the dancer. Studied it in school and everything.“ 

"You should have brought him in," Adam says. "He could have come hang with us." 

"Next time," Namjoon says. He’s not sure why he didn’t ask Jimin, actually. They often have other people in here with them — other collaborators and friends and whoever is around. "He's gonna be here for a while." He takes his laptop out of his bag. "I want you to check out what I've been working on." 

He plays the song a few times. Caleb gets up to add a bright, looping keyboard line over Namjoon's beat. Soon they are in the thick of it, bouncing ideas off each other, trying things and abandoning them and trying something else. It's good. Adam and Caleb are among his better friends in New York, actually. He works well with them, and they've made some really great stuff together. Namjoon has known these guys for a few years. They worked on some of the songs for the abandoned English language album he’ll never finish. He still has those songs, and he listens to them sometimes and wonders how they would have done if they had ever gotten released. They aren’t bad songs, really. They might even have done well.

Doesn’t matter now. They’re never going to be released, and any speculation is just that. 

“Good job, dude,” Caleb says. “I think Robbie is going to love this.” 

Robbie is an executive at a certain record company to whom they’ve sold songs before. Namjoon is not hurting for money, exactly, but a songwriting and production credit on a top twenty hit is never a bad thing. 

“Let’s get together later this week and finish this shit up,” Adam says. “I want to get home.” He is married with a young daughter, and he doesn’t like to work the late hours they once did. In spite of what Namjoon told Jimin, it has been months since they pulled an all nighter in the studio.

They pack up. Namjoon shoves his laptop in his backpack. He checks his phone but he doesn’t have any messages from Jimin — and there’s no reason he should. He resists the urge to text and check in on how Jimin is doing, like he’s some kind of child or something. 

They take the elevator down together and say their goodbyes in the cold streets. It’s snowing again, just flurries.

“Let me know when you want to work on this again. I’m free any night except Friday,” Caleb says. “I’m DJing at that place out in Bushwick. You guys should come out.” 

“I’ll let you know after I talk to Marguerite,” Adam says. “Namjoon, you should bring your buddy.” 

Namjoon smiles, feeling awkward. “I’ll ask him.” 

Caleb laughs. “Dude, seriously, we’re not going to interrogate him or something. You know we watched all those videos like the day after we met you.” 

Adam shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t know how a clumsy fucker like you pulled off those dance moves.” 

Namjoon grins sheepishly. “Lots of practice. Jimin will tell you.” He swallows. “You really watched all that old stuff?” 

“Not all of it,” Adam says. “Fuck. There were hundreds of videos. You weren’t kidding when you said you guys were big.” 

Namjoon feels weird and twisted up. He doesn’t know why it bothers him that they watched some of his BTS stuff. It makes sense, of course. He’d sought out their music too, when he’d first met them and a collaboration was proposed. Still. It makes him feel funny and unsettled, like a door he thought was shut has been ajar all this time. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It was um. Intense.”

He can’t find better words. How can he possibly ever explain everything that BTS was to him?

Adam’s phone buzzes. “Damn, I gotta run,” he says. “We’re out of diapers. I’ll text you guys and let you know about Friday.” 

Namjoon waves and sets off to catch the train at Canal street. It’s a quiet evening. The snow is falling more heavily now. He is thinking about the music, and about Caleb and Adam, and about how maybe he is not as good at banishing those old ghosts as he thought he once was. Jimin is asleep when he gets home, and he is glad for that. He has class in the morning and he needs to sleep, but instead he stays up too late, sitting on the couch and watching some of those old videos himself, marveling at how it seems like just yesterday and another lifetime all at the same time.

*****

Namjoon's bathroom is gross. Jimin isn't a neat freak by any means, but he's gotten a little tidier as he's gotten older. Still. There's a ring in the sink, and the tiled shower walls are dull with soap scum. He isn't going to comment on the toilet. 

He finds some cleaning stuff under the sink, moldering from disuse. It doesn't take that much effort to wipe down the vanity and scrub the sink. He wipes down the shower walls while he's at it, and even works up the courage to take a few swipes at the toilet with the grey toilet brush. Since he's gone that far, he gathers up all the dirty towels and piles them outside the door. Namjoon is long, long overdue for a trip to the laundromat. After an exhaustive search, he finds spare towels in the back of Namjoon's closet. The tags are still on them. Seriously? 

After the bathroom is satisfactorily clean Jimin steps out of his sweatpants and pulls off his tee shirt. There’s a window high in the wall over the shower, and the sunshine that streams through feels good on his bare skin. It takes him a while to figure out the faucet. Once he’s got the water on he steps into the shower. The water pressure isn't great, but the water is hot. He stands under the spray for a long time with his eyes closed. It feels good.

He washes his hair and his body. Namjoon's got a bunch of fancy soap in pretty colors, which is hilarious. Maybe that was a present. Either way, they smell good, which Jimin appreciates. He wraps himself in one of the new towels and pads into the bedroom to pull on underwear and a pair of jeans. 

He's at the sink shaving when he hears the front door open. 

"Hello?" Namjoon calls. 

"Hey!" Jimin says, a little muffled.

He hears the floorboards creak, and then Namjoon is in the doorway, leaning against the door, looking him slowly up and down. 

Jimin tenses, suddenly self-conscious. He doesn't look like he used to look when he was eighteen and nineteen, but then it's been a long time since he's had anyone to impress. He has always felt that pressure so keenly. Isolation helped quell it, but it hasn’t gone away. He still wishes he were taller, more built, more … What does it matter? It's just Namjoon, who has seen him in every possible bad and unflattering situation. It's just Namjoon, who knew him when he was a chubby-cheeked sixteen year old with acne. If he can’t be comfortable with Namjoon, who can he be comfortable with? 

"You didn't have to clean the bathroom," Namjoon says indignantly.

Jimin shrugs, focusing on his reflection. It would be embarrassing if he cut himself shaving. "Your bathroom was gross, hyung." 

"It wasn't that bad," Namjoon grumbles. 

Jimin gives him a look, via the mirror. 

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Fine. I guess it was kind of gross. I meant to clean before you got here, but I had a ton of reading last week." 

"It's no problem," Jimin says, washing the shaving cream off his face. "You need to do laundry, too." 

"I know,” Namjoon says, looking abashed. “I think I’m out of socks. I just figured you would want to do something exciting and not sit in some dirty laundromat with me.” 

Jimin grins. “So were you not going to do laundry the entire time I was here?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, hyung. That sounds kind of gross.” 

Namjoon looks hangdog. “I could have done it when you were sleeping, I guess. Or …” 

Jimin rolls his eyes and wipes his hands on one of the hand towels. They need to be washed, too. 

“Let me get dressed,” he says, “and I’ll go with you.” He looks up to meet Namjoon’s eyes, squaring his shoulders. “I really, really appreciate you letting me stay here, Namjoon, but you don’t have coddle me. I don’t know what Yoongi told you but I’m fine.” 

Mostly fine, anyway. He just needs some time to figure out where he goes from here, now that almost everything has been taken from him. 

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Namjoon says in a stubborn voice. “I just want to be a good host. Are you questioning my hospitality, Jimin-ah?” 

Jimin laughs, and tries not to think about how he looks. He’s never liked his face when he laughs — his eyes get all scrunched up and small and he hates it. He had a closed mouth smile that he used to do but he’s fallen out of practice and returned to his more natural and less flattering expressions.

“Washing the towels is part of being a good host,” he says, stepping past Namjoon into the hallway and putting a hand on his shoulder, briefly, just for a moment. “I’ll even do you a favor and fold everything, since I’m guessing you never learned how to do it properly.” 

“I learned how,” Namjoon says indignantly. “I can fold clothes, Jimin.” 

Jimin snorts. “I’ve seen your closet. You ball things up and then wonder why your clothes are always wrinkled. Please, let me do you this favor. For your shirts’ sake, hyung.” 

Namjoon grumbles indistinctly but Jimin can see that dimple in his cheek that always shows up when he smiles, and he knows he’s won the argument.

*****

The laundromat is dirty and old. The floors are yellow linoleum. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Despite the cold weather, the door is propped open with a bucket of sand that seems to serve as a kind of cigarette graveyard.

They dragged two bags of Namjoon's laundry three blocks to this place. Jimin sorted everything while Namjoon got changed. Now, they are sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs watching Namjoon's towels and gym shorts and socks spin around and around and around. A woman is doing her laundry further towards the back, and her two children play tag, running past, back and forth, over and over again, loud with delight. 

Jimin is cold and a little tired. He wraps his arms around himself. 

Namjoon's foot is bobbing in time with something he must hear in his head. 

"Did you get a lot done last night?" Jimin asks. “You didn’t get home until so late. I didn’t think you were going to get up for class this morning.” 

“Just used to it, I guess.” Namjoon says. "But yeah, we got a lot done. Adam and Caleb liked the track I had them listen to." 

Every time Namjoon mentions someone from his life here so casually it is a shock. Of course Jimin realizes that he's lived here for years and of course he has friends and colleagues and classmates, but it seems strange that it's been so long and they've come so far that Namjoon has this whole other life he's barely even seen. He'd been snooping in the apartment the other day and he'd found a picture of Namjoon and another man tucked into a book. Their arms were around each other's waist, and they looked very close. 

Jimin wants to know who the man in the picture is. He wants to know who Caleb and Adam are. He wants to go back to the times when they were all so much a part of each other's lives that there was no room for anything else. 

"How did you meet them?" Jimin asks. 

Namjoon sighs. "They were some of the guys who worked on my album. After things didn’t work out, we kept in touch, and we've worked together for a while now." 

"Oh," Jimin says. He swings his feet. His heels scuff the floors, but they are so dirty it doesn't matter. 

The washing machine beeps. The first load of clothing is done. 

They dump all the heavy wet stuff into a cart and wheel it over to the wall of dyers. Namjoon gets out a bottle of fabric softener that he'd had in the closet at home — Jimin had been honestly shocked at that. They load the clothing in and Namjoon feeds the machine. 

"I bet your album is good," he says, quietly. 

"Huh?" Namjoon looks up. 

"The American one," Jimin says, softly. "I bet it's really good, hyung." 

Namjoon's face takes on a hard cast. "Not that good," he says. 

"Nah," Jimin says. "I bet it is. I'd like to hear it sometime." 

Namjoon fishes more quarters out of his coat pocket. "I don't think I have the files anymore," he says in a clipped, strange voice. “Lost them when my old computer crashed.”

They finish switching the damp, clean clothes over in silence. When all the dryers are spinning, they go sit down again. Namjoon seems upset, and Jimin feels like he's done something wrong. He hadn’t meant to upset Namjoon, who has been only the most kind and gracious to him.

"Hey," Namjoon says after a pause, quietly, in a softer, more easy voice. "So Caleb is a DJ and he does sets at this place in Bushwick sometimes." 

"Oh," Jimin says. 

"He's doing a set this weekend." Namjoon says. "Do you think you'd want to go?" 

The lasso of anxiety around Jimin's heart loosens. Namjoon isn’t mad. "Sure," he says. He frowns. "Is it fancy? I don't really have any nice clothes." 

Namjoon laughs. "It's not like you're thinking. It's not like the clubs in Gangnam. Just jeans or whatever is fine." 

"Oh," Jimin says. "Okay. I'd like to meet your friends." 

Namjoon smiles. "They want to meet you too." He laughs. "Well, I think they're secretly hoping you're going to tell them embarrassing old stories about me being in a boy band or something." 

Jimin frowns. "It wasn't embarrassing." 

Namjoon winces. "No, I know. I just meant ... They don't really get it, you know? Boy bands are kinda ... It's not the same here." 

Jimin nods. He knows that much at least. "Don't worry, hyung. There are plenty of embarrassing stories I can tell them that have nothing to do with you being in a boy band." 

Namjoon groans and drops his head into his hands. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" 

Jimin grins. 

*****

They get to the club just as Namjoon's friend's set starts. Jimin smooths invisible wrinkles out of his shirt. He's wearing a black sweater over black jeans, with his nice sneakers. Namjoon told him he looked good, but he'd still fretted and checked himself over in the mirror on the way out of the apartment. 

He’d been excited when Namjoon first asked him to come out and meet his friends, but several days of waiting have given him time to get worked up about it. He wishes now he hadn’t agreed so readily. His English is not good. What is he even going to say to these people? 

It is another cold night. A few stars are visible high overhead. Jimin's breath comes out in a faint cloud. He grabs hold of the back of Namjoon's shirt and follows him through the crowd. There are people outside looking at their phones, and a whole group of people further down the block smoking. At the door, Namjoon gives his name and they are let inside. 

"Adam has a table," he says, speaking loud over the noise. 

It's not the kind of club Jimin is used to. He's not really used to any kind of club, but his few memories of clubs in Seoul are of big, exclusive places with velvet ropes out front and lots of cheap glamour inside. This is — not that. The neighborhood is a confusing mix of industrial buildings and trendy restaurants and row houses. The club must once have been a warehouse — the outside is plain, except where it is decorated with graffiti. Inside, it is nicer than the outside would suggest. The back of the room is dominated by a large reclaimed wood bar, and there are booths against one wall. The stage, where the DJ is set up, is towards the front, and people are dancing, but it's not too crowded. 

Namjoon waves to a couple sitting in one of the booths, and slides into the seat. 

"Hey," Namjoon says, shaking the man's hand, leaning forward to kiss the woman on the cheek. "Jimin, this is Adam and Marguerite. Adam's one of the guys that I work with." He switches over to Korean for that last sentence, for Jimin's benefit. 

"Nice to meet you," Jimin says shyly. 

Namjoon's friend buys them a round of drinks. The beer is cold and tastes good but after he finishes it he feels heavy and tired. He hadn’t slept very well the night before. Jimin can follow along with the small talk well enough, but as he gets drunker and the conversation gets more complex he loses the train of it. It’s frustrating. He distracts himself by peeling the label off of his bottle of beer and shredding it. Namjoon is courteous, taking time to translate the gist of what's being said, but it's not the same thing as understanding it himself. When Namjoon, Marguerite and Adam go off on a tangent about someone they know, Jimin lets them go and turns in his seat to look at the people dancing. 

The club is dim and filled with smoke from an ice machine. String lights hang from the ceiling in dense profusion, like dripping, multicolor icicles. Caleb — Namjoon's other friend — is a good DJ, and the crowd is enjoying his set. That rare energy is in there air. Everything is clicking. Everyone is in a good mood. There's motion everywhere, unpracticed and unplanned, but beautiful. There is beauty and intent in that kind of free and glad motion, even when your purpose and destination are unclear. That’s what he’d always loved about practicing the choreography: there was always so much he didn’t know, and always so much he couldn’t control, but he knew the routines and he could follow them and make them his own, and that itself was a kind of freedom, a kind of release. 

How long has it been since Jimin felt that? How long has it been since he _danced_? 

Years. He used to spend hours a day practicing, and now it's been so long he would probably just embarrassed himself if he went out on the dance floor. 

He closes his eyes. 

They order another round of drinks, and then another. Jimin is drunk and out of sorts after three beers. He’s moved on to shredding the cocktail napkins. He wishes he hadn’t come. Something sad has nested in his heart. Namjoon is in high spirits. Everyone else is laughing and happy, and their happiness only makes Jimin feel sadder and more alone. He is thinking of another night like this, a long time ago. He hadn't been with Namjoon that night, but with Taehyung. It had been during those strange months when everything had been on hold: Namjoon had gone to the States, and the rest of them were waiting for something to happen. Taehyung had a minor role in a drama, was becoming chummy with his actor friends again. He'd invited Jimin out to a club with Bogum and a few others in that set and Jimin had gone, because he'd loved Taehyung, even if he hadn’t understood it to be love at that time. He’d known in his heart what he hadn’t yet known in his mind.

He'd felt out of place that night too, for different reasons. He'd met Bogum before, several times, met most of the others. Most of the time Jimin was friendly and good with people, but that night everything had felt strange. He'd been jealous of the attention that Taehyung paid to his other friends, and jealous of the way they got recognized and fawned over by the rich women at the club. He'd felt dumb and young and short and ugly. He'd hated that feeling, and he'd turned that hatred into a heavy ball of misery in the pit of his stomach. 

It wasn't rational, and he'd known it wasn't rational, and knowing that had done nothing at all to change the way he felt. 

That night he'd had too much to drink, and he'd refused when Taehyung had tried to pull him onto the dance floor. He'd felt mulish and angry, and he'd sat with his arms crossed over his chest and watched as Taehyung and Bogum danced awkwardly in the middle of a circle of pretty girls. Taehyung had looked alive and beautiful, and that night Jimin had thought for the first time that maybe Taehyung's heart was so big and full of love for everyone, for the whole goddamn world, that Jimin occupied no particular place of note in it. 

When the waitress had come by again, he'd ordered two more shots. 

He remembers very little of the conclusion of that evening, nothing really except that Taehyung teased him for a long time about crying in the cab on the way home. It was the kind of thing they always teased each other about — drunk crying, silly tics, unreasonable habits. Those were the kinds of defenses you threw up as a group of seven young guys who spent way too much time together, who were way too close. It was a normal thing, and Taehyung had not known that his words that night had cut deep into Jimin’s heart. 

He won't ever know. Jimin won’t tell him. It’s not fair. Not Taehyung’s fault. 

This night is not like that, but it feels close right now enough that Jimin can't help but close his eyes against the wave of sadness and isolation that washes him. He is drunk and stupid and sad. 

Taehyung was his friend, and Namjoon is his friend, but they have other friends, other lives and Jimin is not central enough in either to make much of an impact. He knows that is normal, but it still makes his heart ache. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol, making him sadder and more foolish than he already is.

Jimin startles when Namjoon lays a soft hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” Namjoon asks, softly. 

"Mmm," Jimin says, although his head is spinning. "Sorry. I'm fine. Just tired, I guess." 

Namjoon nods. "Caleb's set is almost over. I'm okay with getting out of here if you want to." 

Jimin cringes. He feels so bad that Namjoon has to change his plans and leave early just because Jimin is acting like a child. "If you're sure you don't mind, hyung." 

Namjoon nods. "Hey," he says to his friends in English. "I think we're going to take off. Jimin's still not over the jetlag." 

Adam nods. "Jetlag is the worst, dude. I think we're gonna take off soon too. I hate leaving the little bean with the babysitter." 

His wife rolls her eyes. "He's worse than I am. He texts the poor woman every ten minutes." 

Adam grins sheepishly. "I can't help it. She’s just so little.” 

They say their goodbyes and make their way through the jostling crowd to the DJ booth. Namjoon steps up to whisper a word to his friend, who waves in Jimin's direction. Jimin smiles and waves back.

There's another short push through the crowd, which is bigger now, and then they are outside again in the cold night air. It feels good. Jimin breathes in deeply.

"I'm gonna get a car,” Namjoon says, resting a hand on Jimin's shoulder again, fingers curling. It is a strange and proprietary gesture and a shiver runs down Jimin's back as he presses back into Namjoon's touch. 

The carshare arrives in a few moments, and Namjoon opens the door for Jimin. They sit silently on opposite sides of the back seat. Jimin rests his head against the cool window, which calms him. His breath condenses on the glass, and everything outside is shadows and spangled light. 

"Sorry I'm so lame, hyung," he says.

The driver, up front, is having a heated phone conversation in a language that Jimin does not understand. 

Namjoon frowns. "You're not lame, Jimin-ah." 

"You should have stayed and had fun with your friends." He sighs. 

Namjoon shakes his head. "Jimin, I wasn't going to make you stay if you weren't having a good time. Besides, Adam and Marguerite were getting ready to get out of there too." 

Jimin nods. "Thanks, hyung," he says quietly.

Namjoon puts his hand over Jimin's hand. His palm is cool and soft. "I just want to help you, Jimin," he says. 

Jimin doesn't say anything, and after a moment Namjoon takes his hand away. Outside, car horns blare. Jimin's head feels full of detritus and loose thoughts, rattling and rolling around, leaving him no peace. 

"Hyung," Jimin says, after a moment. "I think I loved Taehyung." He takes a deep breath. “I mean, I was in love with him.”

After a moment of silence that Jimin is not sure will ever end, Namjoon says, "That is not the most shocking thing I’ve ever heard,” 

Jimin goes all hot in an instant. His cheeks flush. "Really?" 

How had Namjoon suspected when it had taken Jimin so long to realize?

Namjoon shrugs. "You were always just a little more ... attentive to him, I think," Namjoon says, quietly. "It's okay, Jimin." 

Jimin closes his eyes. "I'm so dumb." he says. "Taehyung's not ... he’ll never ... I wasted so much time." 

Namjoon's hand finds Jimin's again, the gentle press of his soft, cool palm. "You didn't waste time," he says in that same calm tone he always used to use when he was being their leader. "It's not a waste of time when you love someone." 

"I know," Jimin says. He's crying now, and he hates that. He wipes his cheek with the sleeve of his coat. "I'm sorry, hyung. I just miss him. I miss the way it used to be." 

"It's okay," Namjoon says. "I miss it too." 

Tears track down Jimin's cheeks, and they do not say anything else but Namjoon's hand closes around his, fingers intertwined. He does not let go until they are home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4! I can't believe we're already halfway through this thing! I really enjoy this one and I hope you do, too. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts if you are inclined to comment :)

Namjoon can’t sleep. His struggle with insomnia is not new, and no remedy — not meditation, not drugs, not bedtimes routines or special lights — has proven effective. Of course, he didn’t set himself up for success tonight. He had a few drinks at the club. Alcohol doesn’t help. Other things weigh more heavily on his heart. 

He is glad Jimin is sleeping, not only because Jimin had looked so tired and sad and worn. He's glad Jimin went to sleep because Jimin's confession has shaken him. 

Jimin had loved Taehyung. No. Jimin had been in love with Taehyung. That subtle distinction is crucial. 

Well, it isn’t the most surprising thing he's ever heard. He'd even had an inkling back then, maybe. In retrospect, it’s not shocking. He'd known, certainly, that Jimin was particularly fond of Taehyung, but in those days Namjoon had barely been brave enough to admit to himself that he was attracted to men. He had never dared go so far as to speculate about any of the others. 

He leans back and pulls his laptop closer. It is three in the morning, and he can hear the bones of the old house groan. It is still snowing, more heavily now than it was when they were out earlier. The roads are quiet.

He is watching videos of BTS. Old videos, from when they were just kids, and later stuff too. He's not going in any particular order. He hadn't even meant to start down this path, really. He'd just been thinking about the old days, and about Adam and Caleb watching those old videos, and he'd found himself on Youtube. He lets the videos autoplay, one following another. He cringes a bit watching that very early stuff. God. His hair in No More Dream had been awful. The clothes had been _so bad_. He’d been so angry then, and so young. They all had been so young. Jungkook still looked like a child, and Jimin was baby-faced and sweet beneath the mask of eyeliner and feigned punk toughness. 

Jimin had worked so hard even then. Namjoon remembers how hard Jimin had worked on his singing and his dancing and his body and even on his mannerisms and speech. More than any of the rest of them, he had spent every free hour in the practice room, as if through sheer force of will he could improve himself continuously and overcome all obstacles. 

Namjoon has always admired that about Jimin. He hadn't been the most talented, perhaps, but he had always been the hardest worker. 

Isn't that supposed to be rewarded? Isn't that effort supposed to lead to greater things? Shouldn't they have gone from strength to strength together, as a group, defying all the odds? 

Onscreen, Jimin grins fondly at Taehyung while Seokjin clings to Jungkook like a monkey. There’s some vague softness in Jimin’s expression evident even then, so long ago. Namjoon doesn't remember this particular day, but he misses it anyway. 

"Fuck," Namjoon says to himself. He lets his head fall back and stares up at the ceiling. He breathes out heavily. There should be some guarantee that bad things can't happen to such good people. 

He should have gone back to them and tried to make things right. 

_Someone_ should have made things right. 

He feels muddled and sad and tired. He closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table. He doesn't want to go in and disturb Jimin. Hasn't he done enough of that? He lies down on the couch and closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but it takes a very, very long time for any dreams to come and replace all those old vanished ones. What those dreams are — if they come at all — Namjoon does not remember in the morning. 

*****

In the small hours of Saturday morning, the weather breaks. The low white snow clouds are replaced with darker grey rain clouds. The temperature rises fifteen degrees, and the gutters are little rivers. They stay indoors, not doing much. Jimin makes some tea and Namjoon reads a book for school. The rain falls steadily against the windows. Otherwise, it is quiet. 

Teacups rattling, Jimin comes in from the kitchen. He sets Namjoon’s cup down on the coffee table and takes a seat beside Namjoon on the couch. With his own cup clasped between his hands, Jimin stares at the warped wood floorboards and tries to muster his courage.

“Sorry about last night,” he says. 

Namjoon looks up from his book. “You don’t have to apologize, Jimin.” He replies so quickly it seems almost reflective.

Jimin nods. He bites his lip. “That thing I told you about Taehyung …” He can’t even bring himself to say it. 

But Namjoon looks up, unexpectedly fierce. “You don’t ever have to apologize about that,” he says. “I wish …” There is an expression on his face Jimin can’t read. “I wish you had told me earlier.” 

Jimin smiles. “I wish I had known earlier,” he mumbles. “I didn’t … I didn’t really understand, until he was gone.” 

Neither of them point out the obvious: Taehyung isn’t gone, not any more than they are. Less, really. He’s still in Seoul.

“It’s okay,” Namjoon says, smiling. “It’s not an easy thing to admit, even to yourself.” He hesitates, and then exhales loudly. “I’ve dated men, Jimin. I want you to know. It’s okay. You’re not alone.” 

Jimin feels hot and tense instantly. His pulse throbs in his ears. His chest goes tight. Namjoon has dated men? Namjoon? “Hyung … I didn’t know you were … You’re gay?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “I don’t like _only_ men,” he says. “I’m bisexual. Or pansexual. I’ve never figured out exactly the right words for myself but. Yeah.” 

His cheeks are red. Jimin is sure his are too. He knows things are changing, and it’s different in America than in Korea, but he doesn’t know how to talk about these kinds of things. He’s never had anyone to talk to about them with. He’s barely been brave enough to search online, alone and in the privacy of his own room. 

“I never knew,” Jimin says, quietly. 

Namjoon shakes his head. “I didn’t either, really. I mean I knew, but I was never with a man until after I came here.” 

“Oh,” Jimin says. He goes redder at the thought. He has never done more than kiss a few people, and he is ashamed of his inexperience.

“I just wanted you to know,” Namjoon says. “It’s okay, and you’re not alone. And Taehyung … listen, it’s natural. We were together all the time and he’s a charming, handsome guy. You guys were really close.” 

“Yeah,” Jimin says weakly, even though that hadn’t been it, at all. “I just … I know he wasn’t … that he’d never … you know. But I still think about how much I miss him, hyung. All the time.” 

He hates the way his voice breaks. 

Namjoon gets up and moves closer down the couch. He wraps his arms around Jimin. Jimin is startled for a moment, but then relaxes into the hug, pressing his face to Namjoon’s chest. He squeezes his eyes tight. His throat catches. The tears come in spite of his efforts, hot and wet. Silently he cries into Namjoon’s shirt until his throat hurts and his eyes burn. 

“I miss him too,” Namjoon says quietly, one hand stroking Jimin’s hair. “I miss you all so much.” 

*****

Sunday is a beautiful day. The weather is mild and the sky is a deep, flat span of blue. Namjoon is awake when Jimin gets up, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. 

“Hey,” Jimin says. He feels shy but better, like all the sadness ran out of him with yesterday’s tears. 

“Good morning,” Namjoon says. He brushes his hair out of his face. “It’s supposed to be a really nice day. I was thinking maybe I could finally show you around Brooklyn.” 

Jimin beams. “That would be great, hyung,” he says. He feels empty and ready for something.

It is almost noon by the time they are both showered and dressed and out of the house. Jimin is hungry. They eat a slow, lazy lunch at a little coffee shop not too far from Namjoon’s apartment. Jimin gets a coffee and a croissant, and then realizes he’s still hungry and orders a turkey sandwich. Namjoon picks at a veggie wrap. When they are finally done, they heave themselves up and head out into the bright afternoon. They walk for a long way, past all the nearby streets Jimin has gotten to know into unfamiliar neighborhoods. It feels good to be outside on a sunny day, in this new, exciting place. It keeps Jimin’s mind off of everything he came here to escape. 

Now, they are walking slowly down a street of majestic, perfectly maintained old apartment buildings. They’ve walked quite a while and Jimin has no idea where they actually are, but it doesn't matter. Namjoon won’t lead him astray. The windows glow with warm light. The sidewalks are pristine. His hands are shoved into his pockets. His nose and his ears still feel numb. He wishes he brought a heavier coat.

"It looks like the set of a movie or something," Jimin says. 

"Yeah," Namjoon says. "It's amazing, right? If I ever make it I'm gonna buy one of these." He nods his head towards one particularly elaborate building, grey stone with flowers and fruit carved above and below the windows. His eye are bright. Jimin can tell he's thought a lot about this. There’s a particular soft look that Namjoon gets when he is dreaming. Jimin knows it. 

"If you ever make it," Jimin scoffs. "Hyung, I think you've made it already." 

Namjoon shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "I'm just another struggling artist." 

"You wrote a song for Rihanna!"

"It's just a filler track," Namjoon protests, shyly. “It’s that track on the album everyone skips over!” He is staring at his feet, but he's also smiling. Jimin can see his dimples. 

"Rihanna!" Jimin says again. "That's like, big time." 

"Eh," Namjoon says. "I'll get back to you when I have a song in the top 10." He's always so self-effacing, when there's no reason to be so. 

"You'd really want to live here?" Jimin asks. "It's so ..." He waves one gloved hand. "It's so fancy." He can't imagine living any place so grand. 

"I like it," Namjoon says, smiling. "It would be kind of like living in a movie, but life is essentially performative anyway, right?" 

"I think college is making you weirder," Jimin says, after a moment’s reflection. "But I guess you've always been kind of weird." He grins and runs a few steps ahead to avoid Namjoon's punch.

They walk slowly. It's almost six and the sky is faintly lavender. The streets are dim and cozy. All the snow is gone, and the feeling of very early spring is in the air. People walk dogs, push strollers, walk hand in hand on their way home from work. Jimin is quiet. He doesn't know what to say. He is happy listening to Namjoon talk about his classes, about his friends, about the songs he'd working on. He's not sure what he could say about himself. The last few years have drained him. 

They walk up a few steps at the end of a street, and onto a brick-paved plaza that runs along the river. They turn the corner. 

The view is unimaginable. 

Manhattan is a dark flat silhouette against the pastel sky, reflected faintly in the rippling smooth water of the river. It looks like a postcard. It looks unreal.

"I can't believe you can see this every day." Jimin takes out his phone to take a picture. He'll send it to his mother — he promised to keep her up to date on what he's doing. 

"I don't see it every day," Namjoon says, grinning. "It's kind of a long walk, you know?" 

"You know what I mean,” Jimin says, a little annoyed. “If I lived here I’d come every day.” 

"Let's take a picture," Namjoon says. "This way I can prove you were here when you disappear again." 

“I never disappeared,” Jimin mumbles. He lowers his phone. Is that what Namjoon thinks? That he _disappeared_? It had been a rash decision, but he’d discussed his decision to enlist with Taehyung and Yoongi and Seokjin, with all of them. He’d told all of them. If Namjoon hadn’t known … well, he was the one who’d been in New York. Jimin never disappeared. He feels suddenly sick to his stomach. 

“Sorry, Jimin,” Namjoon says. His tone is gentle. He must be able to see some of the sudden doubt in Jimin’s expression. “I know you didn’t disappear. And hey, you can if you want to. You don’t answer to the company, or the fans, or anyone.” 

Jimin sighs. “I know, hyung. Sorry. Let’s take the picture.” 

He stands on tip-toes to account for Namjoon’s height and leans back, head resting in the crook of Namjoon’s neck. Namjoon moves subtly forward, pressing against Jimin’s back, and reaches up to take the photo. It’s no work of art. Namjoon's eyes are closed, and Jimin is half out of the frame.

"We’re out of practice," Jimin says, frowning, but mostly he is thinking that he just looks bad. He feels better rested than he has in months, but he still looks tired and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. 

"Nah, it's fine," Namjoon says. "It looks good. Really." He grins. "We should tweet this. I still have the official account on my phone." 

"If you wanted to cause a fan meltdown,” Jimin says, sarcastically. Namjoon has to be kidding. There's no way he still has the password for the group twitter. “They would have changed the password. Right?”

Namjoon reaches into his pocket, grinning. “Who knows. Maybe they did. Maybe not. We could stir things up, Jiminnie. The fans would be thrilled.” 

"No, hyung, don't do it!" Jimin grabs for Namjoon's phone. He is suddenly terrified. What are the fans going to say if they see a picture of him? "Don't do it, hyung!" He’s too shrill, too insistent, and he realizes it, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t want the fans to know he’s here with Namjoon. He doesn’t want them to start speculating. He can see it the fan café posts in his head: _Namjoon and Jimin took a picture together. Is BTS coming back?!?!_. He doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

"Okay," Namjoon says, quietly, putting the phone back in his pocket. "Sorry. I was just kidding around. Big Hit would probably sue me or something if I posted on the official account." 

Things with the company hadn't exactly ended on the best note for Namjoon, either. 

"Sorry," Jimin says, flustered and embarrassed. "I just ... I don't want anyone to know I'm here. I just don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about what the fans would say." 

"It's fine, Jimin," Namjoon says, calmly. "Don't apologize. I'm sorry too."

"Don't you apologize either," Jimin says, putting his phone away and trying to compose himself even though he can still hear his heart thudding in his ears. 

"Fine," Namjoon says. "It's a deal. No apologies. This is an apology free zone." He holds out his hand, smiling. 

They shake. Jimin smiles too, even though he feels like an idiot for getting so upset about nothing.

"Are you hungry?" Namjoon asks, tactfully changing the topic. "Want to go get some dinner?" 

They end up at a little restaurant that looks like nothing much outside but is rather beautiful inside, all dark and atmospheric. The room stretches back, low and long. A few skylights reveal glimpses of the dull sky. It's crowded on the weekend evening. They scoot through the crowded room to claim two empty stools at the end of the bar. Jimin leaves on his coat, still a little cold from the outside. 

The bartender takes her time coming over to get their order. 

"What do you want?" Namjoon asks quietly.

"Um," Jimin says. "Whatever you think is good." He frowns at the menu. 

Namjoon orders them both a glass of wine. The bartender glances at them, and then asks for ID. Jimin blushes, and digs out his passport. He holds it out to her and she examines it with narrowed eyes.

"You look so young," she says, as she hands it back to Jimin. “Could have sworn you were like, 17.” 

Namjoon starts to translate, but Jimin waves him off. "I got it," he says to Namjoon. 

"Thank you," he tells the bartender. 

She goes off to get their drinks.

"Did you ever get your license?" Namjoon asks. 

Jimin hangs his head. "I took the test twice. Failed both times." He kept meaning to register again, after he finished his service, but he’d never gotten around to it. 

Namjoon laughs. "I never even took it," he admits. "You're further along than I am, but I don’t really need it here." 

Does that mean he’s planning on staying? Jimin has not yet been able to bring himself to ask that question. “I don’t really need it either,” Jimin says, “But it would still kinda be nice to learn how to drive. At least Jungkook would stop lording it over me.” 

He says that, and then remembers that they’re not children any more, and Jungkook is a big star, and Jimin hasn’t spoken to him in over two years. 

The bartender comes back with their wine. 

Namjoon holds up his glass. "Cheers," he says. 

"Cheers," Jimin says. 

Their glasses clink. 

Namjoon takes a long sip. "So tell me about the army," he says. "What was it like?" 

Jimin closes his eyes. He wraps one hand around the stem of his glass. Namjoon is watching him, quiet and intent and patient. He doesn't really want to talk about this — he’s derailed the conversation every time Namjoon has brought it up so far — but he thinks he owes Namjoon at least a cursory explanation. 

"There's not much to tell," Jimin says. "I mean, I wasn't really in the army. I'm too broken for active duty." He intends it as a joke, but the words sound far from funny after he’s spoken them. "I did public service. Campus Guard at KAIST." 

Namjoon nods. He must have heard through Yoongi or Seokjin where Jimin ended up. "You went through basic training, though." 

"Of course. It was pretty bad," Jimin says. "I mean, not as bad as preparing for a comeback. But you know. Bad." He grins. 

Namjoon laughs. "Are you saying I'm a worse task master than your drill sergeant?" 

"You can be pretty scary, hyung," Jimin says, smiling, even though he'd never minded the hard work. He'd admired Namjoon's dedication, and strived to work as hard as their leader. "All the guys in my group, when they realized who I was ... they thought I would be a whiney pushover or something. They didn't realize how much work it takes to be an idol." 

"Not everyone put in as much work as you did," Namjoon says gently. There is a calm, almost sorrowful cautiousness to him now that Jimin does not remember from before.

"Not everyone needed to," Jimin retorts. He takes a long drink. "Anyway. That was only a little while. After boot camp, I went to Daejeon. I was stationed at the guard booth in front of the President's Mansion. Mostly, I sat there. When a car pulled up, I stood and saluted. I checked credentials. Sometimes I pressed a button to open the gate." 

"For two years?" 

Jimin remembers those interminable days in the guard booth — hot in the summer, stifling in his polyester uniform, flies buzzing, the radio droning on the background. There had been little to look at, and less to say. He taught himself not to think so that he could get through it. "For two years." 

"Damn."

"Don't worry, hyung," Jimin says, smiling. "Your time will come.” 

Namjoon mock shudders. "Don't remind me."

They order a pizza and a salad to share. Jimin tells Namjoon about the boarding house where he lived in Daejeon — about his tiny room with one window and a narrow bed and ugly flowery curtains, about the student next door who got into loud arguments on the phone with her boyfriend every night, about the kind auntie who ran the place, who doted on Jimin and packed lunches for him sometimes and got him cold medicine when he was sick. He talks about the man who was the senior guard, who slept all day and loved to show Jimin pictures of his two young children. Jimin has learned to keep time based on his superior officer’s melodious snoring. Muddled by a few glasses of wine, Jimin is suddenly nostalgic for those days. It had been a bit lonely, maybe, but not a bad life. He’d had a few people that were almost friends — people he saw regularly, at least — and he’d known what to do and when to do it. He had not appreciated the value of that consistency, that stifling, reliable routine. 

"It really was okay," Jimin says. He feels like his mouth is getting ahead of his brain, and he likes the feeling. Tonight, the alcohol makes him feel easy and loose, not tired at all. What’s different? He has no idea. "I mean, maybe I should have re-enlisted. I was a really good guard." Grinning, he gets to his feet and salutes crisply. “I make a better security guard than barista.” 

Namjoon's smile dimples his cheeks. "You’re not a security guard or a barista, Jimin-ah," he says gently. "You're destined for bigger things than that." 

It's a sweet sentiment, Jimin thinks, even if he isn't sure he agrees. 

After they eat, it's still only nine o'clock, and heading back out into the Friday night city streets feels like stepping into a world of infinite possibility.

"What do you want to do?" Namjoon asks. 

Jimin shrugs. "Anything," he says. "Whatever." 

And really, they can do anything. They aren't idols any more. Nobody knows them here. There's nobody keeping tabs on them, no curfews, no early morning schedules. They are free.

They end up at one of Namjoon's favorite little bars. Jimin thinks it looks like a dump, but the bartenders knows Namjoon's name and there's no line at the door. Jimin grabs them a booth while Namjoon goes up to the bar to get a round of beers.

Jimin takes his phone out. He doesn't want to post their picture to twitter, but he thinks maybe he should send it to Yoongi. As a thank you or something. It makes sense to him, somehow. Yoongi is so smart. It’s like he knew what Jimin needed when Jimin himself had had no idea at all. He can’t send Yoongi a picture though. He has no service. "I keep trying to check stuff, but I have no data," he says, feeling pitiful and isolated. 

Namjoon laughs, leaning back against the booth. "You can buy a new SIM card, you know. We’ll go tomorrow. Here." He pushes one of the pint glasses across the table. 

They drink and laugh and talk, mostly about the old days. A group of people Namjoon vaguely knows come in, and he introduces Jimin. Namjoon buys everyone a round of drinks. His friends invite them along to another bar, but Namjoon refuses. Jimin is glad. He likes it here. He had missed this kind of carefree, warm closeness. They get a third round of drinks — or is it the fourth? The night assumed a vague and slightly blurred air.

"Hyung," Jimin says. He is sitting in the booth beside Namjoon now. He moved over when Namjoon's friends came, but there seemed no reason to move away from Namjoon's side when they left. Namjoon is warm and just the right height for Jimin to rest his head on Namjoon's shoulder. "Let's take another picture, okay? You do it." 

Namjoon gets his phone out and snaps another picture. Jimin leans over and grins and makes a V sign. After Namjoon has taken the picture Jimin grabs his phone so that he can inspect it. He leans forward over the screen so he can see. The flash went off and washed him out, and his eyes are doing that crinkly thing he hates, but Namjoon is beaming and his arm is wrapped around Jimin's shoulders, holding Jimin close. They look happy. It looks good. 

"Send it to Yoongi," Jimin says. "Only Yoongi hyung, okay? I don't want everyone else to know he said you had to babysit me." 

"Not babysitting," Namjoon says, a little thick-lipped. "You're my guest." 

"Okay," Jimin says, leaning forward across the table. His hair falls in his face and he brushes it away. It’s an awkward length, and he hates it. 

Namjoon reaches out now and runs his fingers through Jimin's hair. It feels nice. Jimin resists the urge to press into the touch. "Are you growing it out?" 

Jimin shrugs and pats his hair down self-consciously. "Haven't really thought about it." 

"Maybe you should go pink again," Namjoon says. His words are a little looser, his tone just a bit sloppy. "That was a good look on you. Matched your cheeks." He pokes Jimin the cheek softly with the tip of one finger.

Jimin shakes his head vehemently. "No,” he protests. “My pink days are over. I'm a regular boy now." 

Namjoon frowns. "No,” he says. “You're Park Jimin. You're the best." 

In the beer-sodden light of midnight, this seems impossibly funny. Jimin laughs so hard his eyes water. He rests his head against the slightly sticky surface of the table, heaving in great gulps of air, trying to calm himself. 

He cannot remember the last time life assumed such beautiful, technicolor immediacy. 

It’s time for another round. 

Time stops meaning anything. More glasses collect on the table. Namjoon gets animated and loud. A song he worked on comes on the radio, and he sings along. Jimin smiles so much his cheeks ache. Some time after last call, they are walking home through the cold night. Jimin is not too drunk, just drunk enough. Namjoon seems steady on his feet, but he has an arm wrapped around Jimin's waist anyway. The morning still seems far away. 

In the orange glow of the streetlights, Namjoon looks beautiful. Jimin never thought that particularly, before, but right now he has never seen anything as beautiful as Namjoon: his dark, expressive eyes, his cheekbones, his pink lips. His dimples. God. A building wave has crested, and now Jimin can't look away. Namjoon is so close and there's no reason he can't think to himself that Namjoon is wise and good and so beautiful.

How did he not realize this years ago, instead of wasting his time chasing unattainable and inattentive dreams?

It has gotten colder. It's snowing again, just a few flurries. It's like being inside a snow globe. Jimin feels all shaken up inside. Namjoon looks over at him. He's smiling that half-lidded smile. His hair is ruffled, and there are snowflakes sticking to his glasses. 

"I hope you had fun," Namjoon says. "Not exactly the most exciting night but we can hit up the Meatpacking District next time." 

Jimin snorts. "If I wanted that I could have gone with Hoseok to Ibiza. Don’ want to do that. I want to be here." His words are slippery and loose. 

"I'm glad you're here," Namjoon says quietly. 

Suddenly then, but intently, like he's been thinking about it, Namjoon leans forward. One of his hands comes to rest on Jimin’s shoulders. Namjoon is smiling, and his eyes are soft. He closes his eyes and kisses Jimin on the cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth. His lips are petal-soft. 

Jimin can’t move. He’s forgotten how. He has no idea what he is supposed to do. He is still and trembling. “Oh,” he whispers.

Namjoon's arm tightens around his waist, holding him close. 

Jimin closes his eyes. It wasn’t even a kiss — not really — but his heart thrills.

*****

Jimin wakes up with a stiff back and a pounding head. For a moment, he has no idea where he is. He's sleeping on something plastic and strange. A tarp? Camping? Oh. The air mattress has deflated. 

He hauls himself into a sitting position. It takes a moment for the room to stop swaying. Namjoon is nowhere to be seen. 

Jimin gets to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. He holds his alcohol fairly well, but it's been a long time since he drank as much as he did last night. He gets unsteadily to his feet. In the bathroom he finds a big bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few and swallows them with a handful of tepid tap water. He pisses, and washes his hands, and scrubs his wet hands over his face. 

He drops into one of the chairs at the big dining room table and presses his palms against his temples. He feels like a game of dodgeball is being played inside his skull. This isn't a sensation he's very familiar with. They were always too busy to really have much fun. 

It had been, though, he thinks. Fun. He had liked seeing the beautiful neighborhood where Namjoon dreams of living, and he'd liked the park by the river with such a beautiful view of the city. He'd liked the fashionable bar where they'd eaten dinner, and he'd liked the less fashionable bar where they'd gone afterward. He liked meeting more of Namjoon’s friends and seeing one of the places where Namjoon spent his time. He wants to understand Namjoon's life, figure out Namjoon's secret. There’s got to be some secret to being so happy and living such a charmed life.

He liked, especially, the way the end of the evening faded to a pleasant fuzz: the cold night air as they stepped out of the muggy bar, traffic noises, a neon sign hanging over a restaurant. His arm around Namjoon's waist, clinging. Namjoon's lips pressed awkwardly to his cheek ... 

Oh. 

That's right. 

Jimin presses his fingers to the place where Namjoon's lips had been. 

It had just been a mistake, probably. Just a friendly kiss on the cheek. Friends kiss, right? Hoseok had always been doing things like that, on camera if possible. 

It had been nothing, most likely. Nothing to dwell on. Jimin doesn't have a great deal of experience to go on, but he is pretty sure it didn’t mean anything. He is probably just reading too much into it. 

He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. He’s not sure if he _wants_ it to mean anything. 

He doesn't have any idea what he wants any more. He isn’t sure he ever did. It was so easy to want something he’d known deep down he could never have. 

He gets up and gets a glass of water from the sink. It tastes like chlorine and also like the most wonderful thing he's ever tasted. He drinks two glasses down standing by the sink, water running down his chin, and then pours another glass to bring back to the table. 

"Hey." 

Jimin startles. "Shit. You scared me." 

Namjoon is coming in the front door with a paper bag under his arm and two cups of coffee in his hand. He hands Jimin the coffees and then takes off his coat.

"Cold out," he says. His cheeks are red and his eye are a little bloodshot. He pulls out a chair and sits on the other side of the table. "How are you feeling?" 

"Awful," Jimin says, groaning. He presses the heel of a palm into his face, squinting. "What time is it?" 

"About ten," Namjoon says. "I was going to wake you up but you looked pretty tired." He opens the paper bag and hands Jimin something wrapped in tin foil. "Here. Egg, cheese, and bacon." 

The egg sandwich is greasy and the coffee is sour, but it does an okay job reviving him. He takes a shower while Namjoon makes more coffee. Namjoon showers while Jimin chokes down a cup of his terrible coffee. It is one o'clock before both of them are dressed and relatively awake. Namjoon wants to go to the public library, so they head out. It is a quiet afternoon, and good. He doesn't mention the kiss, so Jimin doesn't either. Just a friendly gesture, like Jimin thought. Nothing to get worked up about. Nothing at all. 

 

*****

Jimin, lying on his side on the terrible air mattress, has the covers pulled over his head and his phone in his hand. He scrolls through his contact list, and hovers over Yoongi's name. 

It feels wrong, somehow, messaging Yoongi, even though of course there's nothing wrong with it. It just feels weird, doing it in the bedroom while Namjoon thinks he's sleeping, like he's going behind Namjoon's back or something, although of course he isn't. 

_Hey Min Yoongi Hyung_

There is a long pause before Yoongi replies. 

_Jimin? Where the fuck are you? Are you in the States? Or did Namjoon finally drag his ass back to Korea?_

Apparently they had sent that picture. 

Jimin smiles. Yoongi's gruffness intimidated him at first, but now it is familiar and comfortable and endearing. 

_New York. I’m staying with Namjoon._

Another pause. _Holy shit. He really invited you._

Jimin narrows his eyes. _So you’re the one who ratted me out, huh? Traitor._

_I reported your condition to Kim Leader, as is my fucking duty._

Jimin smiles. 

_(￣ω￣;)_

Then, a moment later, _Thank you._

He rolls onto his back. The air mattress squeaks. There's something wonderful about talking to Yoongi, at least here, where he's far enough away to outrun his guilt. He's chatting with Yoongi, and Namjoon is in the other room, and if he closes his eyes and imagines hard enough he can almost hear Seokjin and Jungkook bickering, almost hear Taehyung humming to himself in the other bed, almost hear Hoseok's bright, happy laughter. 

Almost. 

But Jimin is not back in the dorm. Those days are long gone and they are not coming back. 

_Hyung. Can I ask you a question about Namjoon? You don't have to answer_

He hesitates, and then presses send. 

Yoongi takes a very long time to reply. _Yeah. Of course. What kind of question? I have all kinds of dirt on that asshole_

Jimin closes his eyes. He opens them again. He doesn't know how to say this in any way that won't seem too direct, too strange, maybe offensive, but it is Yoongi, and if he can't ask Yoongi he'll never ask anyone. 

_Did Namjoon ever tell you …_

He deletes his unfinished message and starts again. 

_Did you know that Namjoon likes guys?_

There is a very, very long pause, and Jimin's stomach starts to twist with dread. He shouldn't have asked. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have ...

His phone buzzes softly. 

_Yeah. Fucker never told me, but I kinda figured it out_

Before Jimin can reply, Yoongi texts again. 

_That a problem for you?_

It's so unexpected that he frowns and feels insulted. Does Yoongi really think it would be a problem? Does he really think that of Jimin?

Well. All those years, Jimin always steered clear of the inevitable backstage conversations about what girl group members waved at who, and who was the cutest, and who had the nicest rack. He played his role: serious and well behaved, and pretended like he was above such things. 

It had been a good cover. 

_Last night ..._

He hesitates. 

_We kinda kissed_

There is another long pause. Jimin can hear Namjoon's music in the next room. He's working on that new song again, and it sounds good. 

_Damn. I didn't tell him to fly you over there so the two of you could shack up_

It's so unexpected Jimin has to smother a giggle. 

_It's fine. I'm not an idiot, hyung. Nothing even happened. It wasn’t even a real kiss._

_Don’t lie to me, Jimin. You have it bad for Namjoon._

JImin feels his cheeks get hot. Does he? 

Maybe he does. 

_I don’t know. I like him a lot. He’s Namjoon. He’s y’know. Kinda perfect._

_Jimin. Kid._

_Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t, okay?_

Jimin rolls his eyes. _Hyung, there are a lot of things you WOULD do that I wouldn't do_

_Just take care of yourself, is all I'm saying. Namjoon is a good guy, but he's kind of ..._

Jimin waits, but Yoongi never says what Namjoon kind of is. 

_I will. Thanks, hyung_

_I gotta go walk Haeyoung’s Yorkie now. Keep in touch, you punk_

Jimin puts down his phone and drops his head back onto the pillow. He can't stop smiling. It's just a side effective of talking to Yoongi, he thinks. But he also can't stop smiling because saying it out loud — well, in text — to Yoongi had made it real. A few messages had drawn the vague and dreamy circumstances of last night out of the ether and rooted them firmly in the real world. 

That actually happened. Namjoon actually kissed him — kind of.

He feels hot and all over. He closes his eyes and think about last night: how good he'd felt, and how close to Namjoon, and how _alive_. There had been no space left over in his heart or his mind to worry about anything else. That’s what he wants. That warm, sweet feeling, like honey. Like sunshine. 

Happy, he thinks. That’s what it is. Happy. 

*****

After so long alone, it is strange waking up next to another person. It is even stranger that the other person is Namjoon. 

During the week, Namjoon has class. He is up and gone before Jimin even opens his eyes. But Saturday morning when it is still cold outside and the radiators can barely combat the chill, Jimin wakes up pressed against Namjoon's side, with one of Namjoon's arms thrown over his shoulders. They are swaddled in the blankets, in each other’s heat.

It is so good. 

Nothing else has happened. He hasn't dared make a move. Jimin wishes, sometimes, that he hadn't focused quite so much on debuting and everything that came after. There must have been time for few kisses, some subtle flirtation, something so that he didn't feel quite so out of his depth now. Jungkook found time, certainly, and Hoseok and Yoongi and the others, but it never seemed to happen for Jimin. 

He feels like a child at twenty six. It's embarrassing, and he hates it. 

Namjoon hasn't made a move either, exactly. He hasn't kissed Jimin again. He's no more physically affection than he ever was. 

But Namjoon has always been very physically affectionate with him. It’s a natural thing – not new. If Jimin is sitting on the couch Namjoon will sit down right beside him and bump shoulders. If Jimin is standing in the galley kitchen and Namjoon needs to shuffle past to get to the fridge, Namjoon will rest a hand gently on his waist or in the small of his back. If Jimin has something on his face – an eyelash on his cheek, say – Namjoon will reach out and wipe it away with gentle fingers. 

None of that is new, he thinks. None of that is different than the way they used to move around each other when they were coworkers, when they were two of seven. But now it's just them, and it feels so different. 

"What are you thinking about?" 

Jimin nearly jumps out of his skin. 

"You scared me!" He turns so he can see Namjoon's face, sleepy and soft in the morning light, one eye barely open. "That wasn't nice, hyung." 

"Sorry, Jimin-ah." Namjoon grins. 

Jimin resists the urge to poke his dimple. 

"I wasn't thinking about anything," he lies. 

Namjoon makes a suspicious noise. "Are you sure? You had your thinking face on." 

Jimin straightens his face so quickly that Namjoon laughs. 

"Yes, that thinking face." Namjoon rolls onto his side, one arm propping up his head. His dark hair is a little longer than Jimin is used to seeing it, and it falls into his face. It's cute. "You're not very good at hiding it when something's on your mind. 

Staring up at the ceiling, Jimin smiles. "I was just thinking about us." 

Namjoon's eyes widen, maybe, just a little. "Oh yeah?" His voice is soft and cautious, or maybe Jimin is just reading too much into it. 

"Yeah," Jimin says. He keeps his tone light too. "Just. You know. This. It’s different than it used to be. With just us, and not the rest of the guys." 

"Oh," Namjoon says. Is that disappointment, or is the disappointment Jimin's invention too? "Yeah. It is different. Quieter." 

"Definitely quieter," Jimin agrees. "I think Jin hyung and Jungkook were responsible for like, eighty percent of the noise." 

“Jin hyung did a good job taking care of you kids," Namjoon says, introspectively. "I was always ... I always wished I could be more like him." 

"Who’s a kid?" Jimin says, rolling his eyes. "You're how much older than me exactly? A year?" 

Namjoon grins. "A year and thirty one days," he corrects. "It seemed like a bigger difference back then, I guess." 

"Yeah," Jimin says. "Well, you were the talented underground rapper, and I was the latecomer. It felt like a bigger difference to me too." 

"You weren't —" 

Jimin cuts Namjoon off, because he knows what he is going to say. "I was the latecomer," he says. "It's okay. It just took me a while to catch up with the rest of you – or try, anyway. You seemed like the coolest, most talented guy in the world to me, back then." 

"And now?" Namjoon asks, one eyebrow raised, teasing. 

“Those glasses you wear are pretty nerdy,” Jimin says, even though they are not all that different from the glasses Namjoon used to wear.

Namjoon’s face does something funny. “Guess I’m just a nerd now.” He sighs. 

"You're still cool, hyung," Jimin says quickly. "I really ..." He frowns, not quite sure how to say what he means. 

"What?" Namjoon is almost smiling. He looks curious. 

Jimin wrinkles his nose. He kicks his feet a little bit under the covers. One toe brushes the smooth skin of Namjoon's ankle. Just the barest brush, but it is like an electric shock. Jimin looks up. Namjoon is still watching him, expression focused and intent. 

"I really admire the way you know what you want to do, and you just set out and do it," he says carefully. He's not good with words the way Namjoon is. When he tried to write lyrics they were derided as childish and bad. He had to practice and be careful with his words when they did interviews. He knows that. It’s okay. "You're just good at stuff. At figuring out what you want," he mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow, feeling a little bit like he wants to disappear and escape this sudden moment of unexpected candor. 

Namjoon laughs, and slides a hand across the bare skin of Jimin's back, palm cool against Jimin’s too-warm skin. 

"You're good at stuff too," he says. 

Jimin shakes his head. "Not really," he mutters. "Probably forgot everything I knew by now, anyway." 

Namjoon's hand is still on his shoulder. His palm is a little rough, but it feels good. His thumb rubs a tiny, steady circle. Was he always this touchy? Jimin can't remember. He doesn't ever remember Namjoon's touch making him feel this way. 

"No way," he says. "You're awesome." 

Jimin makes an indistinct noise of disagreement, but doesn't press it. Namjoon has always been willing to be his cheerleader, even when he doesn't deserve it. He rolls onto his back. "I would never have been brave enough to do what you did, hyung. You just ... you decided you wanted to go to college. You wanted to live your life the way you wanted, and you just _did it_." 

Namjoon is looking at him with a strange expression. "Jimin," he says, slowly. "You did too, though. You decided you wanted to enlist, and you did it." 

Jimin closes his eyes and shakes his head. He doesn't know how to explain that despite what it might have looked like, enlisting wasn't some bold act of courage. It was a last resort. It was the only thing he could do to avoid even greater hurt. He hadn't been forging his own path. He had been running away from failure. 

He doesn't want to tell Namjoon that, though. Not now, when they're so close and Jimin feels so warm and good. It's so, so good to be near another person again. So good to be close to someone who he loves. He doesn't want Namjoon to think he's a pathetic child who had to run away and hide behind a screen of obligation because he was too scared to try. 

He rolls over and hides his face in the pillow again. He's closer to Namjoon, and his shoulder is pressed into Namjoon's chest. Namjoon is wearing a tee shirt, but Jimin can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton. It feels good. 

“You hungry?” Namjoon asks, nudging Jimin a little. 

"Can we go to that coffee shop again?" Jimin asks. "I really liked their croissants." 

Namjoon grins. "Of course," he says. "Whatever you want." 

He throws back the blankets. Jimin curls up into a little ball. "Cold,” he whines.

Namjoon pats him on the cheek, and tosses him a sweatshirt. 

It's so strange. Like nothing Jimin has ever experienced. He thinks it's flirting, what they're doing. He wishes he knew for sure. 

They take turns showering and shaving. It's not strange to be naked around each other, exactly. There was really no way to avoid it entirely with so many guys living in such a small space. But it's strange now that when Jimin steps out of the shower, a towel tied tightly around his waist, Namjoon is at the mirror, shirtless, shaving carefully. He looks at Namjoon's body in a way he never let himself before — in a way he never let himself look at anyone, really. Not even Taehyung, back then. Certainly never this blatantly. He _appreciates_ Namjoon’s narrow, neat waist and his broad shoulders. He's not in the kind of shape he used to be, but neither is Jimin. Namjoon’s arms are a little skinny, his ankles bony. It's charming, somehow. 

At the coffee shop, after they order their coffee and pastry, they sit at a small table and their hands keep brushing. Jimin keeps brushing his hair out his eyes, and he can’t stop staring at Namjoon's slightly chapped lips, to the detriment of paying attention to whatever Namjoon is talking about. 

Namjoon doesn't seem to have the same problem, but then Jimin imagines he presents a much less arresting picture, with his dark circles and his ugly, chopped hair. 

After the coffee, Namjoon wants to go to the farmer's market in Grand Army Plaza. Winter and spring are playing tug of war. In the sun, the day is bright and hot and there's a hint of growing things in the air, but when the clouds blow over, it is cool and dim. Jimin is still wearing Namjoon's sweatshirt, which is a little too big. He likes it though, because he can tuck his hands inside the sleeves. 

"I forgot you always used to do that," Namjoon says, smiling at him. 

"Huh?" Jimin looks down at his balled up hands. "Oh." He feels his cheeks start to heat up. It's kind of a childish habit, and he's surprised his two years in uniform didn't break him of it. His sleeves had been regulation length then. He starts to push them up his arms.

"It's cute," Namjoon says. 

Jimin suddenly feels better, and tucks his fingers into his sleeves again. 

The farmer's market is crowded and somewhat overwhelming. The first spring produce is coming in, Namjoon says. Crates of potatoes and apples from last year are stacked next to bins of early kale and carrots. 

Namjoon buys some Brussel sprouts, onions, and turnips from one stall. He puts them in a cloth bag he brought along for the purpose.

After he takes his change from the woman behind the register, Jimin asks, "Do you come here a lot?" 

Namjoon nods. "Yeah," he says. "There's another market near Borough Hall, too, and sometimes I go into the city and go to Union Square."

"Cool," Jimin says.

Namjoon grins sheepishly. "Honestly, I feel bad. I always mean to cook the stuff I buy, but ..." 

Jimin smiles. "You were never much of a cook, hyung." 

They walk back to Namjoon's apartment slowly. It's not far. Jimin offers to carry Namjoon's bag of produce, but Namjoon refuses. 

"How long did it take you to learn your way around?" Jimin asks. He is still awed by everything.

Namjoon looks thoughtful. "The first year, I lived close to school. Paid a fortune for a tiny apartment in Chinatown." 

That doesn't really mean anything to Jimin but he nods like it does.

"Then a friend of mine I know from the studio told me about this place. _His_ friend was renting it, but was getting transferred overseas for work. He needed someone to take over the lease, and I guess it just worked out." 

Jimin nods again. "Ah," he says. He's never had his own apartment, and it feels embarrassing, suddenly. He lived in the dorms the company provided and then he lived in the boarding house, which wasn't exactly the same thing as having his own place. His room there was just a place to sleep, a place to heat up food in a microwave, a place he could go at night when he ran out of things to pretend to do to keep himself busy. It wasn't beautiful, like Namjoon's apartment. It wasn't _his_. Two years, and that had never been home. 

"I was hesitant to move to Brooklyn," Namjoon says. "The subways made me nervous at first, but I love it now." 

Jimin frowns. "They made you _nervous_?" 

Namjoon shrugs. "Not really. I don't know. It was kind weird for a while." He kicks at the ground with the toe of his sneaker. "I was ... I guess after everything happened I got kind of freaked out." 

"Freaked out?" Jimin doesn't know what he means. "About what?" Namjoon isn't the kind of person to get freaked out. 

"It wasn't like you said this morning," Namjoon says, quietly. "It's not like I made some big, grand decision to break free of the group and pursue my dreams or something. I kept worrying fans would see me," Namjoon laughs. "It took me years before I'd go up near K-town. There are some stores up there that sell albums and stuff, and there are always fans around." He shakes his head. "I don’t even know what I was worried about. It’s not like they were going to beat me up for breaking up BTS or something." 

Jimin nods. He understands the feeling. The first day a group of fans showed up at the coffee shop, he'd been shocked. It had felt like some veil of anonymity had been pierced. He hadn't liked it, but then, the girls had been young and sweet and just wanted his autograph. Nobody had ever come to hold him personally accountable for the breakup of their favorite idol group. 

Maybe he just wasn't that important. 

"But it all worked out," Jimin says. "You moved, and you love it here now, right?" 

Namjoon nods. "Yeah," he says. "It took a while, but I do." 

Jimin glances over at him. Namjoon is smiling. He looks so happy. He's always been able to show his happiness freely. Jimin is irrationally jealous. 

"I'm glad you're happy," he says, and he is ashamed that some of that jealousy creeps bitterly into his voice.

"It's just a choice you make," Namjoon says, calmly. "Happiness, I mean." 

The sun is getting lower and their shadows are long abstract shapes that stripe the sidewalk and then climb up the bland brick wall on the far side of the street. Jimin steps around a pile of shit on the sidewalk. They are not very far from those beautiful streets full of old houses that Namjoon loves, but this neighborhood looks nothing like that. 

Jimin is tired. All of a sudden, he wants to go home, but he doesn't even really want that. He has no idea what he wants except for the unsettled, sad feeling roiling his stomach to stop. He closes his eyes for a moment and is silent for the rest of their walk back.

When they get to the apartment Jimin is sulky, and then feels guilty about it, which makes him more quiet and sulky. He hates acting like a child. Namjoon, wiser and more mature, orders pizza for dinner without asking Jimin. He settles himself on the living room and works quietly on his music with his headphones on. Jimin watches television, but he’s too tired to focus on the English and it is all incomprehensible. He flips through the channels restlessly. Finally, frustrated, he goes to bed early. 

It is okay now, though. 

Morning mend things. 

Jimin sleeps well on the air mattress that night. Maybe it's just the subliminal knowledge that he doesn't have to wake up and make Americanos for ungrateful salarymen. Maybe it is the strange beautiful quality of light in Namjoon's bedroom, which Jimin does not understand. Maybe he is still jet lagged. That’s not possible, after so long, is it? But it doesn't matter. 

He wakes up and he feels good. He is alone in the bedroom. He sits up and stretches. The morning is chilly, and the skin on his forearms crawls with gooseflesh. He twists. His back cracks, but it doesn't hurt too badly. He reaches around, and he can feel the scar from the surgery. It is raised and smooth. It's not something he thinks about often, that scar. Everyone tells him it is barely visible. He forgets about it until he chances to see it, glancing over his shoulder in the mirror, like a pale snake, sinuous and sliding along his spine.

He digs in the closet for a sweatshirt and pulls it on. He doesn't like to think about his scar. 

Namjoon is still on his laptop when Jimin heads into the living room. There are purple circles under his eyes and his hair is disheveled. He is wearing the same shirt. 

"Did you sleep at all?" Jimin asks. 

Namjoon looks up and blinks. "Um. Not much. I got inspired." 

Jimin smiles. "Hyung, you need to sleep." 

Namjoon nods. "I know," he says. "But, hey. Listen to this." 

Jimin is quiet while the track plays. It is very good, in a soft, dreamy way. It is not a song that BTS would ever have recorded, but it is good. 

"I really like it," Jimin says. 

Namjoon smiles. 

"I'm glad," he says. 

Jimin sits down next to Namjoon and gently reaches for his laptop. Jimin shuts it softly. 

Namjoon frowns at him, and then rubs his eye with a fist, which ruins the stern effect. 

"Take a nap," Jimin says. "I'll go get coffee." 

"You'll be okay by yourself?"

Jimin rolls his eyes. "I'll be fine," he says. "Go to sleep." 

Namjoon naps on the couch while Jimin washes his face and gets dressed. He shivers when he steps out of the front door with Namjoon's keys in his hand. It is cold outside. The streets are empty. Jimin sees hardly anyone the whole way to the bodega, just an old woman walking her tiny, trembling dog. 

He gets two cups of coffee and two egg sandwiches. He pays with his credit card. The old man at the register smiles at Jimin when he hands him his receipt. Jimin smiles back. 

Namjoon is still asleep when he gets back to the apartment. His mouth is open. He looks cute. Jimin takes a picture. He has nowhere to share it, and he wouldn’t without Namjoon’s permission anyway, but it makes him happy. 

He sits at Namjoon's feet and eats his sandwich and drinks his coffee. He opens the window and lets in the cold air and listens to the chaotic traffic noise, which is removed and faint, like the backing track of a movie. The commotion of the city seems far, far away from the still calm morning in Namjoon's living room. Jimin sits with his toes curled under him, sips his sweet, bitter bodega coffee, and watches Namjoon sleep. 

Jimin is twenty six years old, lived in a dorm with six other guys, and served in the military. He's seen porn. He's jerked off. He knows what he likes, in theory, but he's never given himself permission to think that any of those abstract attractions could be translated into something real. It's not like he imagined, at all. He thought it would be more cerebral. He thought it would be like looking at a beautiful painting or work of art — admiration and awe. And it is that, but there is something else. He just wants to be _close_ to Namjoon. He wants to touch him. He wants to make him smile. He wants to be near him for no reason at all other than it makes him happy.

It is intense and simple and obvious in a way that his feelings about Taehyung never were. Part of Jimin wants to run away — back to the bedroom, under the covers, or even further, back to Seoul and his dull, safe little life there. Another, bigger part wants to stay as close to Namjoon as he can and see if he can figure out even a little of the peace and joy he feels when Namjoon smiles at him. 

Namjoon wakes up a little after eleven. Jimin finished his own coffee, and then Namjoon's and then tidied up the kitchen for a little while. He is wasting time with a game on his phone when Namjoon sits up, slowly. 

"Hey," he says, "What time is it?" His face is red and smooshy on one side, where he's been sleeping on it. 

"Eleven fourteen," Jimin says.

Namjoon scrunches his face, and rubs his eyes with a balled up first. "Oh shit," he says. "I slept so long." 

"Not really," Jimin says. He pushes the foil wrapped sandwich towards Namjoon. "Here. I got you breakfast. I got you a coffee too, but I drank it. Sorry." 

Namjoon grins. "I'll forgive you if you make me a cup of instant. I have some Maxim Gold in the cabinet." 

"Gross," Jimin says. The barista job turned him into a little bit of a coffee snob. 

"It makes me think of home," Namjoon says, mouth full of egg and cheese. 

Jimin turns on the electric kettle and finds the dusty box of instant coffee. It makes him think of home, too, and waiting rooms at broadcast studios, and his mother, who loves the stuff. When the water is boiling, he pours it into a clean mug, and stirs in the powder. It smells syrupy and disgusting. 

Namjoon accepts it gratefully and takes a long sip. 

"So," he says, looking a little more alive. "I have something for us to do this afternoon, in Manhattan. I thought of it last night." 

"Okay," Jimin says. 

"You don't want to know what it is?" Namjoon smiles curiously. 

Jimin shakes his head. 

Namjoon smirks. "Good, because it's a surprise." 

Jimin showers and dresses while Namjoon finishes his breakfast. He's starting to feel comfortably at home. He hangs his towel on the peg on the right side of the door. Namjoon hangs his towel on the left peg. Jimin brushes his hair back and wishes it would grow a little faster. Maybe he'll ask his mom if there's some vitamins he should be taking or something. She's full of that kind of knowledge. While Namjoon gets ready he puts washes the coffee mug and straightens up the living room. He knows Namjoon doesn't care if the apartment is messy. He's told Jimin to stop worrying about cleaning up after himself, but he can't. He doesn't want to be an inconvenience. 

They take the Q train into Manhattan. Jimin loves coming up out of the tunnel and over the bridge. The city looks grand against the blue sky. They get off at Canal Street (he's trying hard to remember the station names) and head up two flights of stairs into the bustle of Chinatown. Jimin likes it, although the crowds are intense. He has to grab hold of the back of Namjoon’s shirt and hold on so he doesn’t get lost. 

They get bubble tea — Jimin gets strawberry milk tea with boba and Namjoon gets pineapple green tea with mango jelly. They sit at a sticky table in the cafe and sip their drinks. School is over, and kids are coming in in little groups. Namjoon tells a story about someone he knows who is in school to be a teacher and has never tried bubble tea until the kindergartens she was student teaching enlightened her. It is a long story, and Jimin loses the thread. He's a little tired and his back aches just a little bit. He shifts in the plastic seat, finds a more comfortable position. The midday sun is warm through the windows. It's nice just hearing Namjoon talk, though. He could listen to Namjoon talk about anything. 

When they finish their tea they head back out into the streets. They head north on Broadway, which is so famous even Jimin remembers the name. They end up near Namjoon's school. He points out the buildings where he has classes this semester, the buildings where he's had classes in the past. He shows Jimin the coffee shop he likes, and the park where he comes to read in between classes. It is a bustling, busy place, full of young people and the early green of spring. Jimin understands why Namjoon likes it here.

They walk much further uptown. Namjoon asks if Jimin wants to take the train but he likes being among the crowds on the streets. He likes seeing the buildings and stores and food carts and all of it. Namjoon is hungry again so they stop at a taco place. They order fish tacos from a cashier hidden behind a sheet of faded plexiglass, and wait for their order at a tiny linoleum table with one wobbly leg. The tacos are delicious. Jimin feels dehydrated and drinks two bottles of water. It's not as humid here as it is at home. His skin feels dry. 

"Are you going to tell me where we're going now?" he asks, kicking at the leg of the chair. 

Namjoon, mouth full of taco, shakes his head. "It's a surprise," he says. 

Jimin frowns, but Namjoon looks so delighted he doesn't press the issue. He'll see soon enough, he figures, and his desire to know what they're doing isn't enough to make him want to ruin Namjoon's fun. It's touching, too that Namjoon took the time to plan something for them to do. He feels bad that Namjoon is doing so much for him.

"You don't have to keep me entertained, you know," he says, pushing some shredded lettuce around his place. "I mean, you have like, your whole life here. I didn't mean to come in and ..." 

Namjoon frowns. "Jimin, it's been three years since I’ve seen you. I enjoy spending time with you. I want you here.” 

He looks almost reproachful, and Jimin feels bad. "Oh," he says. 

They finish their tacos and head back out. It's afternoon and warmer now. The sunshine is bright. Jimin doesn't realize where they're going until they are standing in a line with a bunch of other tourists. He looks up, and then up, and up and up until the building disappears into the high air. Right. The Empire State Building. It's weird, looking at it this way. The only picture he has of it in his mind is the silhouette of it crowning the skyline. Perspective is a funny thing. From here, it just looks like another building. Nothing special. The sidewalks are dirty, and there are men hawking double decker bus rides and free comedy shows. 

They get on line. Slowly, they creep towards some old brass doors, and then into a lobby. Then they're packed into an elevator — an old woman's elbow is jabbing Jimin in the sternum — and go up for a long time. The elevator doors open and they spill out. Through a glass door, they step out onto the observation deck. Suddenly they are on top of the world. 

It's such a cliche phrase but Jimin cannot think of one that fits better. It is a clear day, and he can see so, so far. He’s done things like this before but in Seoul he couldn’t see so clearly nor so far; there, smog obscures the distance. Now, he can see the towering buildings downtown and Central Park off to the north, and Brooklyn, and New Jersey, and everything stretching away on all sides, model-scale from this height. 

'Wow," he says. 

Namjoon grins. "Pretty cool, right?" 

"Yeah," Jimin says. "Do you come here all the time?" 

Namjoon ducks his head. "Actually, I've never been." 

"What? You've lived here for three years and you've never been to the Empire State Building? What's wrong with you, hyung?" 

Namjoon shrugs. "I just figured I'd get to it eventually. I was waiting for the right time." 

"I'm glad you waited," Jimin says. He beams. Impetuously, he grabs Namjoon's hand. Namjoon's palm is sweaty and warm. He realizes what he's done and tries to pull away, but Namjoon doesn't let go. He intertwines their fingers and squeezes back. The wind is blowing and his hair is in his face. He looks at Jimin, and Jimin looks away. 

"Jimin," he says.

"Hyung," Jimin says. "Namjoon." He is nervous and hot despite the cold wind up here. 

"I ... Jimin." Namjoon pauses and then starts again. "I'm not imagining this, right?" 

Jimin shakes his head slowly. 

Namjoon smiles. He stands up a little straighter. Two kids run past, yelling in delight. Their father chases after them, urging caution. Jimin looks out past Namjoon's shoulder, but all he can see is the soft sky, feathered with clouds. "I wasn’t sure,” he says quietly. His thumb rubs the soft spot between Jimin’s thumb and index finger. “I’m glad, though. I really like you, Jimin.” 

Jimin nods. “I like you too, Namjoon.” His ears feel hot and he stares at his feet. "I haven't ... I've never done anything. I'm not ..." 

"It's okay," Namjoon says. He squeezes Jimin's hand. "I don't mind that. If you think ... do you think this will make you happy, though?" 

"You always make me happy," Jimin says. He knows his cheeks must be pink.

Namjoon smiles, and leans forward and kisses him — an actual, real kiss. Jimin melts into it. He’d worried about this for so long, tried to remember those few brief kisses from high school. Would he fuck up? Would his inexperience blare like a siren? But it feels natural and good and easy to kiss Namjoon back. He feels happier and more whole than he has in a long, long time. 

They stay up there until the sun starts to set. It gets cold and Jimin cups his hands over his ears to keep them warm. The sky is creamsicle orange and peach and plum blossom pink. It's like a dream. He closes his eyes, and pretends he's floating in the middle of a sea of cotton-candy clouds in some dream land, far away from everyone and everything.

Someone bumps into him. Jimin opens one eye, and then another. It's Namjoon, who has his hands jammed in his pockets. 

"Hey," he says, grinning. He looks so happy. Jimin doesn’t understand how he could make Namjoon look that happy. 

"What's up?" Jimin says, smiling too, and feeling drunk with it. 

"I'm kind of freezing." Namjoon says. His nose is red. The wind is strong up here. The sun is going down, and a chill is back in the air. "You want to go?"

Jimin does, because he feels like his ears are going to fall off, but the sun isn't fully set yet. The clouds are soft and beautiful, and the city is a shadow below. Traffic lights and headlights bloom like jewels in the dim canyons between the buildings. "In a minute," he says.

Namjoon nods. He leans more heavily still into Jimin. His head rests on Jimin's shoulder. Jimin closes his eyes again, for a long time. They stay like that, not moving. He can feel the heat where Namjoon is pressed into his side.

When Jimin opens his eyes again, the sun has gone down. The sky is smoke dark and the city is darker. They get back in the elevator and go down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5! I'm a little hesitant about this one, but I hope you enjoy it :)) Please note I changed the rating for this story and added a few more tags as this chapter includes a sex scene that is more graphic than I had originally intended. As always, if you're enjoying this story please take a moment to comment. It would mean the world to me :)

After Namjoon leaves for school on Monday morning, Jimin takes a shower and gets dressed. He didn't bring many clothes with him: a few pairs of jeans, a pair of black pants, a few sweaters, a few tee shirts. One nice shirt, at his mother’s insistence. He'll need to do laundry again soon.

Dressed, shaved, clean and awake, he has nothing to do. It's a strange feeling. For his whole life, Jimin has been striving. After he got discharged and slinked back to his parents’ house, he had his brother's wedding and his work at the coffee shop to give him the illusion of busy industry. Here, there's nothing at all. 

He reads for a while. Jimin is not a big reader, but he's never really had much time for it. Maybe he just needs to give reading a chance. Most of Namjoon's books are in English, but there are a few on the shelf in Korean. Jimin picks one that has a nice cover and a pretty title and curls up in the comfy chair in the living room, digging his toes into the cushion. 

It's a good story, but Jimin is a slow reader. The morning sun is hot and bright. He makes it through thirty pages before his head starts to nod. His eyelids slide shut. He wakes up an hour later with the book on the floor and a stiff back. 

Just like anything else, it must take practice to be a good reader. He saves his place in the book. He'll keep trying. 

He gets up and stretches. His back has been bothering him lately — not too badly, but he wakes up feeling stiff and achy. It makes him feel old and tired and revives that old frisson of fear: what if the pain just keeps getting worse? Sleeping on an air mattress is not helping. Namjoon needs to get a real bed.

He's hungry and there's nothing in the fridge. The kitchen is still a mess. Namjoon scolded him and told him not to clean, but he doesn't reasonably see how he can prepare food with the kitchen in this state. He's not Seokjin but he can make rice and cut up kimchi at least.

He cleans everything off of the kitchen counters. Dirty dishes go in the sink. Garbage goes in the can. There's a big stack of mail. Jimin sorts it but the most recent thing is postmarked ten months ago, and most of it seems like junk besides. He throws it all out. The fridge, thankfully, isn't that bad, since it seems like Namjoon has never actually used it to store any meaningful amount of perishable food. Still, Jimin throws out a few bottles of expired salad dressing and ketchup, and wipes the whole thing out with bleach. When he's done, it's spotless inside and contains only the one tub of yogurt, a bottle of soy sauce, and a few apples. 

There are terrifying things in the kitchen cabinets that look like they were left by the original tenants many decades ago. Jimin can't find any gloves so he uses plastic shopping bags instead to avoid any contamination. He does all the dishes and dries them because there's not enough space in the drying rack for everything. He sweeps the floor. Namjoon doesn't appear to own a mop.

He feels good afterwards. Motivated. He likes to focus his energy on some task. Cleaning Namjoon's house isn't exactly a great accomplishment, but it's something. 

Besides, in spite of Namjoon’s protests, Jimin wants to do something to pay him back. This is hardly enough.

He puts on a jacket of Namjoon's that is too big and heads to the deli. It's a warm morning, and there are people everywhere. He has his headphones in and good music to listen to. He is happy, he thinks. That’s what this is. 

The ahjumma at the grocery store is delighted to see him. 

"Hello, Namjoon's friend. How are you this morning?" she asks him in Korean. 

"I'm good, auntie," he says. "I'm here to buy Namjoon hyung some real food." 

She smiles. "I'm glad you have a little more sense than he does. That boy would live off udon noodle soup if he could. He's too thin. Doesn't eat well." She narrows her eyes to look at him. "You're a skinny one too. You boys need to come over so I can cook for you." 

"That would be nice, auntie," Jimin says. "One day." 

"I'll hold you to that!" she says. 

Another customer comes up to distract her, and Jimin escapes down the produce aisle. He hasn't ever really shopped for himself much. As critical as he is of Namjoon, when he was in Daejeon he mostly lived on whatever the boarding house provided for free. He only really knows how to make the most simple foods: boiled eggs and sautéed chicken. Fried rice is an elaborate stretch. Maybe he should buy a cookbook. 

It’s not the most comprehensive shopping anyone has ever done, but after a half an hour of dithering he comes to the front counter with basket full of essentials: rice and soy sauce, deonjang and gim, some fresh vegetables. 

"Ah," the ahjumma says, emptying his items out onto the counter. "You're getting proper food. You seem like a good boy, and a good friend." 

He smiles at her, feeling pleased. "Thank you, auntie. I'm not such a good cook but I try." 

"I wasn't even sure if Namjoon owned a rice cooker," she said. "I was going to give him one for Christmas, but my daughter said I was being overbearing again.” 

Jimin laughs. "He has one," he says. "I don't know if he knows how to use it." 

She shakes her head. "That boy. I know he's in school, but he needs to take better care of himself." 

"I know," Jimin says. "He's never been very good at it." 

"Have you known him a long time? You're not a friend from his school, are you?" 

"Oh," Jimin says, "No. We um. We used to work together? Before he came over here for school." 

"Oh, colleagues?" She eyes him. "But you look so young!" 

"I'm twenty six," he says, a little indignant, "I just finished my military service."

Her eyes light up. "Twenty six? I must be getting old. You look like a baby, but you're my daughter's age. You’re not married, are you?" 

He's not sure what his expression looks like but it must be funny because she bursts out laughing. "Don't worry," she says. "I've already tried that one on your friend."

Jimin smiles, relieved and just a little annoyed.

She keeps talking, as though her words are mostly intended for herself. "My daughter would never let me set her up with a nice boy, you know. She's a dancer. She went to school for dance, and now she's working on her career. I keep telling her she needs to settle down and get married while she's young, but she tells me to stop being so old fashioned. I just want her to find someone reliable so she doesn't end up like me." She looks up at him. She must be around his mother's age if she has a daughter who is his age, but she looks much older. Her skin is crepe-y and the whites of her eyes are slightly yellowed. "I worked myself to the bone, taking care of her and this place, all on my own." 

Jimin stares at the dirty linoleum floor. "I was a dancer," he says, quietly.

"And you've probably decided to take up a sensible profession now, haven't you? You look like a smart boy." 

Jimin shakes his head. "No," he says. "I hurt my back. But ..." He closes his eyes. "But I'd like to dance again one day. If I can." 

She makes a fond but exasperated noise in the back of her throat. "You artists," she says, "All the same. Nothing else matters." She sighs. "My husband was an artist. That’s where my daughter gets it from.” She laughs. “Of course, that's why I fell in love with him. He was an ugly man, but he made beautiful things.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jimin says, politely. 

She snorts. “What loss? He left me to go paint in Europe. ‘Follow his passion’ is what he said. Give me a break,” she says. “Worthless man. He lives in Sausalito now, and paints little pictures of boats he sells to the tourists.” 

Jimin laughs in spite of himself, and he can tell by the way she smiles that she’s amused too. 

“Sounds like you didn’t really need him, though,” Jimin says. He looks around at the bright, busy store. “This place is amazing. You did it all by yourself.” 

“That’s the thing I didn’t realize,” she says wistfully. “Love isn’t about needing. It’s about wanting, and he wanted to go paint little pictures of churches.” She sighs. “Remember that, young man. If you ever decide you need someone, think about what you want instead.” 

It sounds like good advice, so he smiles and says he will, but he’s glad when she rings up his order and he can go. It’s strange to think of someone who looks older than his mother having a passionate affair with an artist, but then Jimn doesn’t know much about love.

Later, Jimin is standing at the counter chopping vegetables when the door opens. Namjoon is home. 

"Are you cooking?" he asks, dropping his bag and his coat on the floor right inside the door. 

"Hello to you too," Jimin says. "And yes. I'm making dinner." 

Namjoon, in stocking feet, steps into the kitchen. He places a hand, so gently, on Jimin's waist as he steps past to get to the fridge. 

Yesterday evening, as the light faded from pearl to ash, they had kissed and kissed until Jimin's lips were almost numb from it. Namjoon's hand had rested on his waist. His fingers had pressed into Jimin's side softly. Jimin hadn't known what to do with his hands. He'd folded them in his lap at first, until, when things progressed, he rested one on Namjoon's shoulder. That seemed to work okay. Namjoon had tasted weird but not bad. They’d gotten each other off with their hands. Jimin had liked it. Part of him had wanted more – he’s not sure _what_ exactly, just more – but it had still been really good.

Namjoon takes the pitcher of filtered water of the fridge and pours himself a glass. He watches Jimin at the stove and then cocks his head. "Did I always have that rice cooker?" 

Jimin laughs. "Yes, but you've never used it. There was still a card from your mother inside the box."

Namjoon looks a little abashed. "Oh yeah," he says. "She was worried I wouldn't be able to find a good one over here." He steps forward and leans over Jimin's shoulder to look at what he's cooking. "That smells good." 

"Just a stir fry," Jimin says. 

"You really don't need to clean up and cook and stuff," Namjoon says. "I don't ... You don't owe me anything." 

Jimin shrugs. "I just want to be helpful," he says, stirring the sizzling chicken and veggies. 

"Yeah," Namjoon says, "But you don't have to be." 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "I get it, hyung. Don't worry. I'll spend tomorrow lazing around. Your kitchen can go back to being a disaster area." 

"It wasn't that bad," Namjoon says, pouting. 

Jimin slaps him gently on the cheek, all play. "It was pretty bad," he says. 

Namjoon hangs his head. 

"Go sit down," Jimin says. "It's almost ready." 

He serves dinner as best he can in Namjoon's small collection of assorted plates and bowls. The rice is a little too sticky and the sauce for the stir fry is too salty. There are no side dishes other than some kimchi. But when it's all laid out in the space that Jimin cleared at the end of the table, it looks pretty good. Definitely edible, anyway. 

Namjoon sits down at the end of the table, his eyes wide. 

"Wow," he says. "Jimin, this looks great. You really didn't have to go through so much effort." 

Jimin grins. He likes doing a good job, and likes it even better when his good job is acknowledged. 

"I know," he says, "But I wanted to." 

Namjoon talks about his day as they eat. He had two classes. In the first they talked about a movie they'd watched. The movie had been in Chinese with English subtitles, and Namjoon had struggled a little. So he claims, anyway. Jimin doesn't believe it. He knows his hyung's faculty with language. When dinner is over they clean up together. Namjoon clears the tables and dries the dishes. Jimin washes and puts them away. It’s a good system, and they work well together. They always have, and it makes Jimin glad. 

*****

They go on dates. Nothing fancy. Jimin hasn't dated much before, obviously, but the impression he had from dramas and movies is that dates involve a lot of candlelight and expensive restaurants and possibly a makeover montage. 

That seems like a lot of work, honestly, especially when Namjoon has class and work. In the evenings, they go out to eat at some of the cozy small restaurants in Namjoon's neighborhood, but those are comfortable places where Jimin can wear his worn tee shirts and jeans and not feel out of place. They try food that Jimin has never had before – Ethiopian and Polish and Southern food. It never feels like a big deal. Being with Namjoon is so easy. 

Other times, they venture a little further afield. One day he meets Namjoon after class and they go up to Times Square. It's big and bright and busy. 

"Kinda like Myeongdong," Jimin says. “Not as nice.” 

Namjoon nods. "Yeah," he says. "Just as many tourists, though." He wrinkles his nose. 

They push through the crowds. The sky is light mauve at the horizon, at least what can be seen of it through the massive, towering buildings. They walk up Madison Avenue. It's all designers and well-known brands here. Not really Jimin's thing, but Namjoon still likes to shop so they go in anyway. In the Chanel store, Namjoon admires a large and very ugly bag. 

"What would you even do with it?" Jimin asks. 

Namjoon shrugs. "I don't know. Nothing, really, but it's kind of amazing that anyone would buy something so ugly and so expensive."

"I don't know," Jimin says. "Our stylists used to love expensive and ugly stuff. Remember those boucle jackets?" 

Namjoon grimaces. "Oh god. The Lucille Bluth jackets. I had almost forgotten." 

They wander through the bright clean stores, picking out things that they might have worn on stage, once upon a time. Styles are different now, and certainly at the beginning of their career they couldn't have afforded most of this stuff, but it's fun. 

Everything with Namjoon is fun. It's so easy being with him. Jimin hasn't had that in a long time. He hasn't _allowed_ himself that luxury, might be closer to the mark. It's breezy and good. Namjoon picks up a hideous visor with a pink Lucite brim and a bejeweled band and puts it on Jimin’s head

"Oh god," Jimin says, looking at himself in the fingerprint-smudged mirror. "I look ridiculous." 

He takes it off and smooths down his hair. 

"You look cute," Namjoon says. "Pink is your color, Jimin." 

Jimin blushes and, on an impulse, squeezes Namjoon's hand. Namjoon squeezes back, holding on. They walk like that out onto the street, hand in hand, and nobody notices or cares at all. 

New York is full of almost everything Jimin can imagine, and Namjoon has spent his time here exploring. He has so many places he wants to share with Jimin. It feels exciting and secret when Namjoon takes Jimin to his favorite tiny sushi place, to a used book store on the Upper West Side, to Fort Tryon Park one very cold and blustery day. They are underdressed and huddle together for warmth, but it is worth it, almost, to watch the fat tangerine sun set over the wide span of the Hudson, over the Palisades. 

There is a new and different geography here, and Jimin is eager to learn. This life — New York and Namjoon and all of it — is so new and was so unanticipated that he has a hard time being critical. He feels like he's in a dream, or floating, perhaps, in a fast-moving stream. He can't ever quite find his feet, but he doesn't care. 

He is not sure if this is happiness, but he is not sure if it matters. 

Namjoon’s class is cancelled one day, so he decides they should go to Coney Island. 

"It's closed," he says. "Which sucks. But it's still cool to check out." 

Jimin doesn't know what Coney Island is. He has to look it up online. He doesn't have strong feelings one way or another about amusement parks, but he is excited when he realizes it is near a beach. He knows that New York is near the ocean, and that Manhattan is an island, but there’s no scent or feeling of the sea anywhere.

They get the Q train at Prospect Park and take it a long, long way, past many blocks of shabby buildings and unremarkably apartments and small houses. Jimin is sleepy for no reason. He rests his head on Namjoon's shoulder. A group of boys get on the train, and put on a dance performance. They are talented. They ask for donations. Namjoon gives them five dollars. 

"Wow," Jimin says, after they have moved on to the next car. "That was amazing. Way harder than any of our choreo ever was." 

Namjoon grins sheepishly. "Well you and Hoseok had to dumb it down for me. You two could have pulled that off." 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "You’re misremembering my skills, hyung," he says, but he snuggles closer to Namjoon anyway. “I was never that good.”

Namjoon just shakes his head and puts his arm around Jimin's shoulder. "I think you're forgetting what you can do when you put your mind to it," he says quietly. 

Jimin closes his eyes and nods, but does not say anything. 

He dozes off and wakes, startled, when Namjoon shakes him gently. They are at Coney Island. They get off the train and head down to the street. A few people wait quietly for busses beneath the train tracks. Jimin can imagine what this place looks like in the summer, when the weather is warm and people are out enjoying the evening, but at noon on a cold Friday in early spring, it is empty and quiet. 

They walk the few blocks to the boardwalk. The neighborhood is a strange mix of old things and very new things that bump shoulders uneasily. It's not all that nice, really, Jimin thinks, but he doesn't care. 

He can hear the ocean and he can smell salt in the air. 

The boardwalk is almost empty. A few runners lope past silently, in their own little worlds. The wind howls, kicking up sand. The beach is medium tan and wide, punctuated with jetties periodically. Jimin sits to take off his shoes. 

"What are you doing?" Namjoon frowns. "It's cold!" 

Jimin shrugs. "I want to feel the sand," he says. He undoes his laces and takes off his socks and stacks his shoes neatly next to each other. He walks out down the beach. It's strange. It's not anything like home, this place, but it reminds him of home. Gulls call, and they sound the same. Maybe all gulls speak the same language. Maybe these are the same birds, following in his footsteps halfway across the world. Do gulls migrate? He doesn't know. 

The sand is gritty underfoot. There's some trash, and some ocean refuse that has washed up. There was a storm the other night, and the tide must have risen high and left these treasures behind when it receded. Jimin picks up a shell — just a clam shell, nothing special. He turns, and watches Namjoon watch him. He waves. 

Namjoon waves back. 

He closes his eyes and pretends he's back at home, just for a moment. Instantly, he feels less lonely. He doesn't even know what that means. He is twenty six years old and at this point he's probably spent more time living away from Busan than living in it, but it is still home. It always will be.

The warm feeling he gets when he thinks about the pretty skyline with Gwangandaegyo lit up all bright and colorful is like the warm feeling he gets when Namjoon takes his hand and holds it. Both things melt something in his heart and make him feel a little more whole. 

He walks down to the water's edge. The waves break frothy against the sand. He gets his toes wet — it's freezing cold. He takes a step back, and admires the way his footprints sink smooth into the wet sand, and then fill in with little pools of water. He is not paying attention and a bigger wave comes up, surprising him, soaking his pants to mid-calf. 

"Shit!" He runs across the sand, laughing, startled but not upset, windmilling his hands. He runs all the way up to the foot of the steps that lead up to the boardwalk where Namjoon waits. 

"It got you, huh?" Namjoon is smiling. 

Jimin, a little breathless, nods. "Dumb wave," he says, grinning. "I'm gonna go back down by the water. Come with me." 

Namjoon wrinkles his nose. "It's cold ..." 

"Come on, hyung! It's fun." 

Namjoon take his shoes off reluctantly and stacks them next to Jimin's. Jimin grabs his hand and they run like that, hand in hand, down the beach. It is hard going and sand flies everywhere. When they near the water, Namjoon lets go of Jimin's hand. Jimin runs a few paces further, splashing in the shallows. His feet are already numb from the cold, so why not enjoy it? 

But before very long, a cloud passes in front of the sun and it is windier and Jimin is wrapping his arms tight around himself to keep out the cold. They sit on the sandy steps that lead up to the boardwalk and wait for Jimin's feet to dry. They are pale and wrinkled and sandy. He brushes them off as best he can but his feet are still clammy and gritty when he pulls on his socks and shoes. 

They walk down the boardwalk for a while. Namjoon talks about the song he's writing. 

"The producer ... I've worked with him before, and he's talented, but he's got this idea about electro-country and I just am not sure if it's going to work." 

He looks troubled. 

"What is electro-country?" It wouldn't be the only trend that Jimin missed while he was doing his service. 

Namjoon shakes his head. "I have no idea." He grins. 

Jimin laughs, and his heart feels light despite his cold feet. 

On the subway ride back to Namjoon's neighborhood, they hold hands and Jimin watches the evening sky fade through layers of delicate pastel color: peach, coral, mauve, faint plum. It is very beautiful. If he cared about this kind of thing any more, he would take a picture and post it online. 

But he doesn't. He deleted all of his social media when he decided to enlist, and he's never bothered to set up new profiles unassociated with his past life. 

Once they're home, Jimin changes into sweatpants. It feels so good to get out of his damp jeans. Namjoon orders Thai food. It takes a while for the delivery guy to show up, and Jimin is hungry. Finally, it arrives, and he and Namjoon sit on the couch and slurp noodles noisily. They leave the styrofoam to-go containers on the coffee tables and Namjoon pulls a blanket off the arm chair and spreads his arms. 

"What?" Jimin asks. He's not quite sure what Namjoon wants from him. 

Namjoon's cheeks turn pink. Jimin smiles. Blushing is usually his department.

"I want to cuddle," Namjoon says with as much dignity as he can manage. (Admittedly, not much.) 

Jimin grins and scoots down the couch. He presses against Namjoon's side, and rests his head on Namjoon's shoulder. They fit together so well like this. It's amazing they never figured it out sooner. They're just the right size and shape for each other. They come together with no gaps left over. 

Namjoon puts something stupid on television, but Jimin doesn't really pay attention. He studies Namjoon instead. His skin is a little darker than it used to be, but then so is Jimin's. He's not quite as rigorous with his sun screen application these days, and he spends more time outside. It looks good. Namjoon must have skipped shaving this morning, because he's got a five o'clock shadow. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips are curved in a smile. 

"What are you looking at?" he asks, turning, catching Jimin's eye. 

"You," Jimin says, honestly. 

Namjoon smiles, and leans forward to kiss Jimin. His lips are soft and it is good. Jimin still feels keenly his lack of experience, but Namjoon is calm and gentle and keeps one hand steady on Jimin's shoulder, anchoring him. Jimin barely feels nervous at all. They make out for a long time, and don't do anything else, although Jimin would like to. Maybe. Instead, Namjoon kisses his forehead and his cheekbones and his chin and wraps his arms around Jimin. He rests his chin so gently on the top of Jimin's head. 

Jimin closes his eyes. He can feel the rise and fall of Namjoon's chest. He can feel his own breath, falling into the same rhythm. He can hear the quiet dumb noise of the television and the traffic outside and an upstairs neighbor talking loudly about something that Jimin cannot make out. He can feel his heartbeat. 

He has never, ever in his life felt this safe. 

He wonders if this is love. He would never leave Namjoon's arms, if given the choice. Might that not be love? 

He always thought that if he fell in love he'd know, that it would strike like a bolt from the blue. 

He is not sure. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to know. This is good, but is it enough? 

He is worried about what he'll feel in the morning, but for right now he pushes away all thoughts of the future and takes Namjoon's hand in his and presses a kiss to Namjoon's open palm.

He wants so, so badly for it to be enough. 

*****

Not every day is good, of course. 

Jimin does not have much to do, is the thing. He doesn’t have _anything_ to do when Namjoon is not around, other than read and rest and putter around the apartment. Namjoon is busy, and Jimin is often left to his own devices. Some days that’s fine, but other days he feels cooped up and restless and eager for something new (even though this is still new). Some days he thinks he’ll shake out of his skin if he has to sit and read even one more page, watch even ten more minutes of whatever inane sitcom is on TV. 

So he walks a lot, and jogs sometimes. He gets to know the neighborhood well. He has his favorite routes to the coffee shop and to the deli. His forgotten English, never the best, is coming back surprisingly quickly. He can get through most basic transactions without embarrassing himself too badly. He wanders further and further afield: to the Botanical Garden and Prospect Park, through Park Slope, over to the canal, even down as far as Greenwood Cemetery one very cold and grey day when he is feeling so, so alone. 

He often feels alone, walking those dirty streets, stepping around dog shit smears and unsavory stains on the sidewalk. He floats through the chill spring mornings, drifting, aimless but not entirely unhappy. Not happy, either. Feeling not much of anything, sometimes. He takes pictures of interesting things — buildings he likes, a street full of magnolia trees in early bloom, some beautiful graffiti. He tells himself he'll show Namjoon the pictures, but usually he doesn't. He thinks of sending them to someone else, but who? Not Taehyung. He could send them to Yoongi, but in the end he just decides not to be a bother.

He has been in New York a while, and the sky is a flat slate hanging heavy. It is one of the not good days. Each tree is covered in a haze of new green, but it isn't warm yet. It is evening, and Jimin is walking through Cobble Hill. He feels almost drunk on the beauty and strangeness of the world. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours. 

He should go back to the apartment, but he is tired of Namjoon today.

It's nothing big. It's not like they got into some huge fight. It's just ... little things. Today he is sick of the way that Namjoon refuses to do the dishes, and sick of the way he won't hang up his towels. He's sick of eating out, sick of the nonchalant way Namjoon spends his money, even though Jimin knows that's not fair. 

When Jimin was fifteen, he thought Kim Namjoon was the coolest person on earth. At eighteen, he thought Namjoon was the best, hardest-working hyung a guy could possibly have. Now he is twenty six and tired and doesn't know what he thinks. Some days, some hours – most of them — he loves Namjoon so much it makes his heart ache. Other times he just wants to be alone. 

He closes his eyes. His contacts feel gritty, and he's very thirsty. He ducks into a corner store to get a bottle of water and drinks it standing on the corner. His phone buzzes. It's a text from Namjoon, asking what he's doing. 

Jimin frowns at his phone. He isn't far. Fifteen minutes walk and he'll be back at the apartment.

But for some reason, Namjoon’s text grates. He isn’t sure why. Everything is grating today. He doesn’t want to tell Namjoon where he is or what he’s doing. He doesn’t want to go back to the apartment and sit there, awkward and unnecessary, while Namjoon works or does school work or whatever. 

He just wants to keep walking, so he does. 

_Going for a walk_ , he tells Namjoon. _I’ll be back later_

In the end he isn’t sure how far he walks or where exactly he goes. He just keeps going, head down and shoulders hunched, not even paying much attention to his surroundings. With his hood up and his hands in his pockets, nobody pays him much attention. He feels invisible. He likes it. 

It’s dark by the time he gets back to Namjoon’s place. He hasn’t been out this late before on his own. Not in New York, anyway. Namjoon looks up when he comes in. He smiles.

“Hey,” Namjoon says. “How was your walk? Where did you go?” There is not even a shadow of worry or annoyance or accusation in his voice. 

Fuck. Namjoon is such a good person. Something sharp and prickly in Jimin’s heart withers. He shrugs off his coat. 

“I’m not sure, exactly,” he says, quietly. “It was a nice evening, and I felt like walking.” 

Namjoon nods. “Cool,” he says. He never pushes too far. He never calls Jimin out. It hadn’t been a nice evening at all. In fact he’d gotten caught in a shower on the way back, and his hair is damp. 

“Are you hungry?” Jimin asks, pushing his damp hair off his face. 

Namjoon shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says. He is working on a song. Jimin can tell from the slightly distant expression on his face. “I had something earlier.” 

Jimin nods. He goes into the kitchen and fixes himself a sandwich and eats it at the other end of the table, not saying anything, flipping through an English language magazine Namjoon brought home. He can’t read a lot of it, but he looks at the pictures. Boring boring. He turns the pages without seeing much.

Namjoon is still working when Jimin is done. 

“I’m going to go to bed,” Jimin says quietly, after he has washed his dish and put it in the drying rack. 

“Alright,” Namjoon says, looking up, blinking. The blue light of the computer screen makes him look pale and ill. “Good night, Jimin.” 

“Good night, Namjoon.” 

Jimin changes and lies down on the air mattress. He falls asleep before Namjoon comes in. 

When he wakes the next morning, though, Namjoon is there, and the tense hurt feeling locked around Jimin’s heart is almost all gone. 

“Good morning,” he says quietly.

Namjoon just smiles, and wraps his arm around Jimin’s waist, pulling him close. “Morning,” he says, voice rumbly and low.

Jimin closes his eyes, and wills the rest of that strange ache away. He has to be strong enough to master it. It has to be enough.

*****

There are some benefits to Namjoon’s busy schedule, of course. Jimin sleeps more than he ever has in his whole life. There's no reason for him to get up. Namjoon is out of the house no later than eight or nine every morning, depending on when his first class starts. Jimin wakes up leisurely, without the pressure of an alarm, closing his eyes again if he wants, taking up all the space, wrapping himself in blankets and going back to sleep.

During those long, leisurely mornings, he can do whatever he wants. Sometimes — not every day, but more often than he ever has before — he wakes up hard and hot, some uncertain and foggy dream already fading from his mind. It's not like this has never happened before, but at home he shared a room with his brother and in the dorm the other guys were always there and in the boarding house the walls were so, so thin. For the first time in his life, there's no reason for him to sneak into the bathroom and take a cold shower. There's no reason to get himself off quickly and without much pleasure, disguising even his faint noises behind the shower's spray. He is alone, and he has all the time in the world. 

He starts to explore his body in ways he never has. With the sheets tangled and his sweatpants pushed down around his ankles, he starts to figure out what he likes. He likes _touch_ , he realizes, which maybe isn't the most surprising revelation in the world. He likes running his hands down the soft skin of his chest, his stomach, likes stroking gently the dips below his hip bones. He can get himself so worked up just running fingers along the inside of his thighs, squeezing a nipple between two fingers, letting his body fall loose and boneless into the bed. 

He can take things slow. In the dorm, there was a tacit understanding that sometimes the bathroom door would stay shut for a quarter of an hour or something, but even that was a privilege none of them took advantage of too often. For his part, Jimin was too tired most of the time to be turned on, or too sore, or too anxious about everything he couldn't do well enough, about everything he still had to do. Now, he can take the bottle of lotion from the bathroom and slowly tease himself to hardness, easing a slick palm along his length, playing with speed, firmness, lifting a knee to get a better angle, palming his balls in one hand while he jerks himself off with the other. He his flexible and young and he discovers that it is easy for him to turn himself on, and easy for him to make himself come. He never guessed that pleasure could be this cheap, or this good. 

Part of it, he thinks, is that for the very first time in his entire life he has someone to desire. 

He thinks about Namjoon, now. 

How could he not? He thinks about Namjoon's stupid smile, about his dimples, about the amused but slightly overwhelmed expression he wears sometimes. He thinks about Namjoon's body: slim and well proportioned, with long elegant fingers and slightly bony shoulders. His flat pale stomach. His narrow hips. His ugly big feet. 

He thinks, also, of what Namjoon might want to do with him. Of what he wants to do with Namjoon. 

They have kissed, sure, but they haven't done anything else. Jimin thinks Namjoon is waiting for him, but Jimin doesn't know how to do things like this. He never has, with anyone. He fantasizes a lot — about jerking Namjoon off, about watching Namjoon's face change as the wave of pleasure crests, about sucking Namjoon off, about the stretch of his jaw, about Namjoon's hand in his hair, holding him in place. He thinks about fucking Namjoon, opening him up wide and taking him roughly. He thinks about something softer and deeper and more romantic, maybe. 

He wants to try it all. He doesn't even know what he wants, and he sure as hell as no idea how to ask for it. 

In spite of all the evidence, he’s not sure that Namjoon would agree, if Jimin _were_ to ask. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jimin can’t quite make himself believe that Namjoon desires him in the same concrete and specific way he desires Namjoon. He’s not sure that anyone has. Sure, there were fans that screamed about how cute he was, but there were just as many who criticized his fat cheeks and his soft stomach and his ugly chubby hands. None of them really knew him anyway. They were just reacting to something fake: the idol, not Jimin. 

There has never been anyone else. There has never been anything honest. He has never felt wanted. Not once. Not the way he wants Namjoon. 

So he closes his eyes and jerks himself off in the bed he shares with Namjoon, face pressed into a pillow that smells of Namjoon’s shampoo. He goes slowly and then faster so that it hurts just a little bit and thinks of Namjoon and of how much he _wants_ , and how he has no idea at all how to translate that want into anything real even now, even with Namjoon so close.

***** 

Jimin is singing in the shower. Namjoon can hear his high, sweet voice so faintly over the patter of the water. Namjoon can't make out the words, exactly, but just hearing him sing makes Namjoon happy. It has been a long time since he’s heard Jimin’s voice, joyful and unguarded.

He puts down his book and gets up to open a window. It's a warm day. The first really warm week, and it feels suddenly like spring is coming in fast. Even in the city, all ugly concrete and asphalt, the air smells fresh and moist. The window catches in the frame. He has to shove hard to get it up. He props it up with a paint stirrer. He had ambitious repainting plans when he first moved in, but the can of paint sits unopened. He doesn't even like the color any more. 

His phone vibrates. Namjoon is expecting a call from a guy he knows who is interested in doing some work together, but to his surprise it is Hoseok, calling all the way from Korea. It's only eight in the morning there. Namjoon's heart drops into his stomach. Oh shit. He totally forgot. 

"Hey Kim Namjoon!" Hoseok's voice is cheerful, delighted. "Are you ready to have an awesome time?" 

A few months ago, Hoseok had called to let Namjoon know he'd be coming to New York to film for a new variety show he was appearing on — something about traveling to the great cities of the world and exploring youth culture. It sounded fun. He'd proposed coming a few days early so that he and Namjoon would have some time to hang out. 

Namjoon had thought it an excellent plan at the time, but that was before Jimin. 

He doesn't know why it should make a difference. Hadn't they all lived together for years? Hoseok and Jimin have always been close. 

But he’s not sure how things ended between Jimin and the other guys, and he’s been too scared to ask. He should just ask — what happened, and why had it mattered so much? Why isn’t Jimin talking to any of them? What had he done to make Yoongi so concerned? It seems a pretty glaring oversight, but he hasn’t been able to ask and now he can't keep his reluctance out of his voice. 

"Yeah," he says. "It's going to be great." 

"Okay," Hoseok says. "Who died?" 

Namjoon snorts. "Nobody died. I just ..." 

"You sound like I just told you that you needed three root canals, Namjoon. What's going on? I thought you were excited for our big reunion. You're not getting cold feet on me, are you?" 

Namjoon closes his eyes. "No," he says. "Of course not. I'm just … Jimin is here." 

Hoseok is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "So that's where he snuck off to. Yoongi hyung wouldn't tell me." 

"Yeah," Namjoon says, feeling strangely miserable. "Yoongi said he was acting weird, so I called him. He seemed like maybe he needed to take a break for a while, so I asked him to come stay." 

"Oh," Hoseok says. Then, brightly, "Well, awesome! That means I get to see two of my favorite people. I mean, you're okay, I guess, but I'm really dying to see Jiminnie. He's probably all manly and soldiery and stuff now. He is doing okay, right?" He ends on a plaintive note. 

"Yeah," Namjoon says. "He's ... you know. He's Jimin. He's good."

Hoseok makes a suspicious noise. "You're really being weird, Namjoon." 

"I'm not being weird," Namjoon says, trying to laugh off the awkwardness. He's not being weird, exactly. He just worries that if Hoseok comes to visit it will ruin the tender, comfortable routine they've established. It's dear to him, more than he even realized before this moment. Are they going to have to pretend to – what? Just be roommates, or something? "I just ..." 

"You two are hooking up," Hoseok says quickly. "Oh my god. You and Jimin are getting it on." 

"No!" Namjoon says. "Be quiet. No, we're not, hyung. I mean, we’re kind of dating but ...." 

"Oh my _god_ ," Hoseok squeals. "That is _so_ sweet. I mean, you've always had a crush on him, but I guess you finally got your head out of your ass and realized it. Wow. I owe Jin hyung a beer." 

Namjoon frowns. "You bet Jin hyung that I'd never realize I had a crush on Jimin?" 

Hoseok laughs. "Sure. We had a running bet. But wow. You and Jimin. Wow." 

Namjoon closes his eyes. "It's not like that, really. I mean. Actually it is. But I’m worried it’s not a good idea. I’m worried he’s going to get hurt or something." 

Hoseok snorts. "Dude, I think Jimin is old enough to decide if he wants to get hurt. You're not the _leader_ any more Namjoon. Don't forget. And besides, you’re not going to do anything to hurt him, right?" 

"Never,” Namjoon says, vehemently.

He knows he's not. He just ... he wants so badly to make things better for Jimin, and is so scared he'll make things worse. Selfishly, he’s been savoring this sweet and dear new thing they’ve found. He’s barely spared a thought for the future. 

"Wow," Hoseok says. "I'm even more excited for this trip now. This is going to be amazing.”

"No," Namjoon says. He knows how excited Hoseok can get, how he likes to jibe and tease. He's usually good about not going too far, but Namjoon doesn't even want to risk it. He cares so much for Jimin, and he doesn't want him to feel weird or uncomfortable. 

"No matchmaking. No teasing. No hinting. Just. I don't know. Pretend I didn’t tell you." 

Hoseok sighs deeply. "Ooookay. No teasing. I got it. But you are totally into him, Kim Namjoon, and I think I've earned the right to tease you a little bit about how long it took you to figure that out." 

Namjoon frowns. "Was it really that obvious?" 

Hoseok laughs. "No, not that obvious. I'm a pretty observant guy, though. Let's say it was more I saw the potential of a crush. I just didn't think you'd ever do anything about it." 

"I didn't realize how much I missed him until I saw him again," Namjoon says. 

"That's so _sweet_.” Hoseok makes a delighted noise. Then, someone in the background says something indistinct. “Ah, I have to go, Namjoon, but tell Jimin hi for me! I'll see you both in a few days!" 

After Hoseok hangs up, Namjoon realizes he can't hear the noise of the shower any more. Oh shit. How much has Jimin overheard? He doesn't even know if Jimin is going to be okay with Hoseok coming, or if he's going to be pissed that Namjoon told Hoseok where he was. He doesn't know how things were left between them. He doesn't know ... 

"Who was that, hyung?" Jimin is in the doorway, damp and clean from the shower. He is wearing just sweatpants and toweling his hair dry. He looks impossibly beautiful in the soft afternoon light. 

"Oh," Namjoon says. "It was Hoseok." 

"Oh," Jimin says, brightly, perking up. "What did he have to say?" 

"Um," Namjoon says. "He's coming to visit, actually." 

"Ohhhh," Jimin says, understanding. "For the show. It figures they'd be coming to New York. I watched the first couple of episodes with my mom. It’s good." 

He doesn't seem furious, which is a good sign. Namjoon presses forward. "I accidentally let slip that you're visiting, Jimin. I'm sorry." 

Jimin purses his full lips. His eyes are downcast. "That's okay," he says. "I don't ... I'm not like, in hiding from them. I just didn't want to go up to Seoul and deal with everyone all at once, you know?" 

Namjoon does know. He hasn't been back to see them in years, after all. 

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Good. He's gonna be coming in a few days early, and I told him he could crash here." 

Jimin beams. "Great," he says. "It'll be just like old times." 

Namjoon looks at him and feels his heart do a little flip-flop. Nothing about the way he feels about Jimin is like old times. "Yup," he says. "Just like old times." 

*****

They come up from the subway and emerge into the crowded middle of the block. Broadway is bumper to bumper. Horns blare. The city teems. 

Namjoon has class. Jimin is getting antsy sitting alone in the apartment, so he comes along. He feels more confident in his navigation skills now. He can explore until Namjoon is done. 

But, an awkward moment first. Jimin takes a step forward, and Namjoon takes a step to the side, and it's so weird — are they going to shake hands? What? Sometimes it seems like a miracle than Jimin can manage to get through a day interacting with other people without making an idiot of himself. 

Jimin, unsure of what to do, freezes up. Namjoon swoops in and kisses him on the cheek, and then rests a hand on Jimin’s waist and kisses him again, on the lips. 

Jimin smiles. The awkwardness melts. “Have a good day at class.” 

“I’ll try.” Namjoon grins, dimples in his cheeks. "Text me if you need anything." He waves, and he's gone. 

Jimin waits until he turns the corner and then heads uptown. It's exciting to realize he knows which direction is uptown and which downtown. Things are starting to make a little more sense, after a few trips into Manhattan with Namjoon. At the very least, he can orient himself the landmarks — the Empire State Building uptown, One World Trade Center downtown. He has no particular destination in mind. Newfound navigational skills aside, he doesn't like to take the subway on his own, so he won't go far. It's a cold day, but the sun is hot. The trees are frothy with new growth, and a few brave people have already foregone coats. Jimin closes his eyes and feels the warmth of the sun on his face.

In Union Square he gets a coffee and a pastry, which he eats sitting on a bench near the dog park. The pastry is flakey and good, and the coffee is strong. He watches people walk past with their dogs. Jimin has always liked animals. He'd always wanted to get a cat, but didn't think it was fair while he lived at the dorm.

He could get a cat now, though. Maybe he'll look into that when he goes back to Busan. Whenever that might. He isn't brave enough to think beyond a few days right now. 

When he is done with his coffee he keeps going uptown. He heads up to Madison Square Park. The park is full of glass globes on metal platforms, lit up from inside. It’s part of a public art exhibit, and very beautiful. He lingers for a while to enjoy the art, and appreciate the fact that he has nowhere else to go. He cuts over on 24th to 7th Avenue and turns back downtown. He has plenty of time. Namjoon's second class isn't over until noon.

A few blocks down 7th, he passes an unprepossessing storefront with a beautiful wooden platform bed displayed in the front window. It looks like something that should be in a museum. The door is open, so Jimin steps in. 

It is a small store, full with furniture and folded futons and many houseplants. The floor is clean and glossy. An old man stands at the back of the store, sorting through something in a box. His hair is white, but he has a bright and energetic manner. The entire place is calm and firm and soothing. 

"Hello," the man says, pleasantly.

"Hello," Jimin says. He is still shy about his English but he can get through a basic conversation. 

"Can I help you?" 

Jimin nods. "Um. How much are ..." He gestures to the futons stacked near the wall. 

The man takes a book from under the counter and opens it. It’s a catalog, with styled pictures of all their items and the prices and dimensions underneath. The platform beds are works of art, but way too expensive. Just a futon though ... 

It would be an improvement on the air mattress. Jimin wants to do something to thank Namjoon for everything, but his interest is not entirely selfless. 

He arranges to purchase a queen size futon and have it delivered while Namjoon will be at class. The man explains how the business is family-owned, how they make everything themselves, and how they have been in this location for sixty years. At least Jimin thinks that's the gist of it. Jimin picks up a pen to sign the receipt and realizes his hands are shaking. It seems serious and real, buying furniture for Namjoon’s apartment. He wonders if Namjoon will be angry at Jimin for making such a presumption. 

The shop owner hands back his receipt and his credit card. Jimin shakes the man's hand, and folds the receipt and puts it in his wallet. Outside, the sun is bright. Jimin blinks and reaches for his sunglasses. He forgot to pack a pair, so he stole some from Namjoon. They are ugly, with big tortoiseshell frames. He probably looks ridiculous. It's okay. 

He waits for Namjoon in the park by his school. He sits on bench and looks at the fountain, which had been drained for the winter the last time he was here but is filled now. The water noise is soothing. He closes his eyes. There is a low, lovely hum of conversation and laughter. Jimin falls almost to sleep. 

He wakes up, startled, when someone sits down right next to him. 

"Hey, sleepyhead." 

It's Namjoon, smiling and looking very happy. 

Jimin props his sunglasses up on his head. "How'd you find me?" 

Namjoon shrugs. "Figured you'd be somewhere around here. I guess I just got lucky." 

Jimin smiles. Namjoon rests his hand on the back of the bench, behind Jimin's shoulders. Jimin turns, resting his cheek on Namjoon's arm. It's comfortable and close. He has no hesitation at all about doing this in public, and it’s wonderful. "How was class?" 

"Good," Namjoon says. 

"Good," Jimin says. 

"Where did you go?" Namjoon asks. "You weren’t waiting here the whole time, right? You didn't get lost?" 

"Eesh," Jimin says. Namjoon treats him like he’s made of glass, sometimes. "I was fine. I know how to use Google Maps." He shifts a little closer to Namjoon. Their knees brush. "I went up to Madison Square Park, and then came back down here." 

"Damn," Namjoon says. "You walked far." 

Jimin shrugs. It hadn't felt far. "Trying to get back into shape," he jokes. Namjoon doesn’t laugh, though, and Jimin cringes and changes the subject. "I got you a present." 

Namjoon frowns. "You didn't have to get me anything." 

"I _know_ that," Jimin says. "But I wanted to." He presses his nose into Namjoon's arm. There's something about Namjoon that makes him feel a little silly, a little like he’s going off the rails. 

Namjoon grins. Jimin loves his smile. "Well, what is it?" 

"It's a surprise," Jimin says. "You'll see next week." 

"A surprise present." Namjoon lifts an eyebrow. "You're really something, Jimin." 

Jimin feels his cheeks get hot. "Nah," he says. "It’s not much compared with how much you’ve done for me." 

Namjoon shrugs, uneasy. “What have I done for you?” he asks. 

Jimin leans forward, eyes wide. “What have you done for me?” He shakes his head, amazed that Namjoon could even ask that question. “Hyung, you’ve done so much for _all_ of us. You _were_ BTS, in the most important ways. I owe you so much.” 

Namjoon makes an unhappy noise. “I kinda screwed things up, though, in the end.” 

“Nah,” Jimin says. “Not your fault.” 

He’s thought about it of course — how in some ways it is Namjoon’s fault — but he doesn’t hold it against him. It doesn’t matter, really, any longer. 

Namjoon is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t argue, but Jimin can tell that he doesn’t agree. He thinks it _is_ his fault, and that makes Jimin’s heart ache a little. After a moment Namjoon gets to his feet and stretches. 

“Hey, let’s go get some coffee. I’m beat and I need to finish this paper tonight,” he says. 

He slings his arm loose over Jimin’s shoulder. As they walk to the coffee shop and get their order and talk about a concert that Namjoon has tickets for, Jimin can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. Namjoon can’t really think that, right? That it’s all his fault? That’s not fair, and not true. 

It doesn’t even matter anymore. Why does it even matter? Jimin thinks that, but he knows it for the lie it is. The past is all around them, and as hard as Jimin tries, he can’t get escape it. 

He doesn’t even want to. 

*****  
A few days before Hoseok is going to arrive, they go out to dinner, and then have a few drinks at a bar. Now it is late and they are walking home through a damp, sweet spring evening. Namjoon's hand is on Jimin's side, rubbing low on Jimin’s waist through his shirt. The moon is almost full and the sky is strangely bright. At the bar Jimin had been sleepy, but by the time they get home, he feels awake and a little anxious and not ready for bed. 

"You want to try to finish that show?" he asks. 

They are working their way through some series on Netflix. Namjoon is very invested. Jimin is less so, but he likes the opportunity to snuggle on the couch with Namjoon. Usually, that’s enough to make him happy, but tonight by the second episode Jimin is bored. He presses his cheek against Namjoon's neck, and then, impulsive, sits up a little and kisses him on the cheek. 

Namjoon smiles and kisses Jimin back. 

Jimin is not usually the one to initiate this kind of thing — not out of a lack of desire. Hardly. He is just nervous, and afraid of messing up. 

But he's not afraid now. He feels so comfortable with Namjoon. Closer than he's ever been with anyone, easy and loose in his own body in a way that he has rarely felt before. He kisses Namjoon again, scooting forward. Namjoon shifts back so he's leaning against the arm of the couch. There's a moment of confusion before they find a way to fit together. Namjoon's hand comes up to Jimin's arm. His breath tastes faintly of the wine he'd had at dinner — sharp and a little bitter. 

They make out for a while. The episode of the show they're watching ends, and the next one automatically starts playing. Jimin feels all jittery — turned on and too eager. His lips tingle. Namjoon likes to touch. His hands find their way under Jimin’s shirt, slide up and down his back. It’s good. It makes Jimin feel warm and excited and eager. His hips are pressed to Namjoon’s, and he is sure that Namjoon can _feel_ how eager he is. He can hear it, certainly. Jimin can’t help the way he makes these high, eager little noises when Namjoon kisses him, can’t help the way he sighs noisily into Namjoon’s mouth, can’t help the way he whispers little nonsense nothings to Namjoon. It’s embarrassing, but Namjoon had said he likes it, likes Jimin’s voice and likes the sweet eager way he can’t keep quiet. 

Things progress. Namjoon tips his head back and kisses Jimin more deeply, slow and greedy and hot. Jimin can’t help the way that his hips press forward, looking for some kind of friction. Namjoon’s hands slide down and under the waistband of Jimin’s pajama pants, pressing into the small of his back. Jimin pants into Namjoon’s mouth. He needs to get a hold of himself. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself – come in his pants like an overeager kid – but he’s hard and eager and Namjoon is so sweet and hot and _good_ and … 

“Want you, hyung,” Jimin says. His voice is hoarse and low. “Wanna fuck you. Wanna …” 

His brain catches up with his mouth and he freezes. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

Namjoon’s eyes are wide. Stunned.

Oh shit. Oh shit. 

Jimin sits back, embarrassed and awkward, adjusting himself in his pajama pants. “I didn’t mean … Um. Sorry. I …” 

He must look stricken, because Namjoon’s stunned expression melts and he laughs, and that laughter — kind-hearted and sweet — breaks the spell. 

"Sorry," Jimin says again, bashful.

Namjoon grins. There are high spots of color on his cheeks. "You're so fucking cute," he says, and he kisses Jimin, again. “Why would you be sorry about that?” 

"'Dunno," Jimin mumbles, his nose brushing Namjoon's, his hand on Namjoon's waist. “Just … figured you wouldn’t want to do that. With me, I mean.” 

Namjoon takes Jimin’s hands in his own. “Jimin,” he says. “I definitely want to. Why wouldn’t I want to?” 

“Don’t know,” Jimin says, embarrassed. “I mean, you’re … I thought if we … if you even wanted to, you would want me to. You know. Bottom.” 

Namjoon breathes out slowly through his nose. He takes both of Jimin’s hands in his. “I like both,” he says, quietly. “I’ve been with guys who topped exclusively, and I’ve been with guys where we switched, and I’ve been with some people who don’t like anal at all.” He grins, lopsided. “I kinda prefer bottoming, actually.” 

Jimin can’t meet Namjoon’s eyes, and he’s sure his cheeks are burning, but he’s still hard and eager and he _wants_ it. He really does.

"You really —" Jimin's breath hitches. "You really want me to fuck you?"

Namjoon make a low, deep sound in his throat. He squeezes Jimin’s fingers between his own. "Yeah," he says. "Been thinking about it for weeks."

"Namjoon," Jimin murmurs. "I never ... I didn't think ... I haven't."

"I know," Namjoon says. "It's okay. I know what I like. You'll figure it out. It's not hard."

Neither of them make the obvious joke, but they dissolve into stupid giddy laughter anyway.

They end up in the bedroom. Slow, Namjoon says. Let's take it slow. And they do.

Jimin can feel Namjoon's eyes on him as he undresses. Hungry. Expectant. He feels self-conscious. He always does. He's never been naked in front of someone else for a _reason_ and he can't help the way his stomach turns over uneasily. But there is such a dark and eager hunger in Namjoon's eyes that Jimin can believe, for the first time in his life, that someone really _wants_. He has heard fans scream his name until they are hoarse, has had fans break down into tears at the sight of him, but he has never in his entire life felt desired until this moment. 

Namjoon – long and pale, all elegant lines— leans back against the pillows. His dick is the first other than Jimin's own that Jimin has ever had the chance to touch, and Jimin found the differences fascinating at first. It's shorter and fatter than Jimin's own. Namjoon’s foreskin is darker than the pale skin of his thighs, his belly. Namjoon's balls are heavy. He doesn't shave or anything — not like some of the guys in the porn Jimin has watched — and his pubic hair is black and curling. Jimin kind of likes it. He hadn’t realized he would

"You’re so beautiful, hyung," Jimin says, hush, kneeling at Namjoon's side.

Namjoon looks at him, hazy-eyed and red-lipped. "You're one to talk," he says, smiling. "C'mere."

Jimin lies between Namjoon's spread legs and they kiss for a long time. Namjoon runs his hands down Jimin's sides, soothing, settling. Jimin is so self-conscious of the way that his dick presses into his belly, into Namjoon's, but the steady feeling of Namjoon's big hands on his skin calms him and pushes the nerves away.

"Sit up," Namjoon whispers into Jimin's neck.

Jimin sits back on his heels. He's hard and it's embarrassing. He feels like he could come in an instant, if he just touched himself, so he folds his hands in his lap and doesn’t. He wants to, though. He's turned on and tense and eager, and he's still worried that he can't do this or that it won't be as good as Namjoon expects. 

Namjoon grabs the bottle of lube and box of condoms he keeps closet and squirts some into his hand. He rubs his hands together and warms it, and then slowly reaches down and slides one finger into himself.

It's so hot. Jimin bites his lip. He feels all shaken up inside. Namjoon's eyes close, and then open. His mouth is open, too. He moves his finger in and out, slowly, and then he looks up and says in a rough voice, "Jimin, c'mere."

Carefully, so carefully, and following Namjoon’s instructions, Jimin stretches him open. It is a weird feeling, a thrilling feeling. He can feel Namjoon’s body – hot and smooth and strangely cushiony – pulse around his fingers. One finger at first, but Namjoon is used to this and after a little while he asks Jimin to add a second. He swallows but then relaxes and his body opens to let Jimin in.

“I tried this,” Jimin says, not meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “By myself, I mean. I Iiked it, but …”

He hadn’t been able to make himself come this way, and he’d worried that he’d done something wrong, and there had been blood. Not a lot, but it had been alarming. He hadn’t had lube, just some hand lotion. He’d been too nervous to buy any, even online, even shipped in a discreet and anonymous box. He’d been so nervous and embarrassed by the whole thing that he’d never tried again. 

He’d like to, though. Maybe if he doesn’t mess this up too badly they can try that next. He wants to see if he’ll enjoy it as much as Namjoon seems to. 

“It’s good,” Namjoon says, practically purring. His head is tipped back and his hair flops over his forehead and the long line of his neck is bared to the sky. The flush in his cheeks has traveled to his chest. “I really like it, Jimin. You’re doing great.”

“Good,” Jimin mumbles. “You feel really good, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon is holding his leg pulled into his chest and his stomach is clenched tight and Jimin is curling his fingers _inside_ when Namjoon closes his eyes and says, “Okay. Okay. I’m ready, Jimin.”

They both put on condoms. Namjoon has been insistent on this point since the first, and Jimin knows he’s right even though there’s no possible cause of concern on his side. It’s good to be safe. Jimin fumbles with his foil packet. His fingers are still slick. He gets it open, and then rolls on the condom. He swallows. Namjoon smiles at him. Jimin has never seen him like this: so relaxed and open and soaked through with pleasure.

“C’mere,” Namjoon says, beckoning.

Jimin crawls forward on hands and knees. He feels a little idiotic. He can’t imagine what he must look like, all flush and the condom already on and so hard he feels like he might explode.

Jimin fits himself between Namjoon’s spread legs, and Namjoon, displaying more flexibility than Jimin would have thought, hooks one leg and then another over Jimin’s shoulders. Jimin closes his eyes, trembling. His dick brushes Namjoon’s hole, already stretched and slick. The pink flesh is shiny. Jimin swallows and steels himself. Slowly, so slowly, guiding himself with one hand, he pushes into Namjoon.

It doesn’t seem like he’ll fit. It doesn’t seem like Namjoon’s body can open up enough to fit Jimin inside. There is a moment of intense pressure and Namjoon makes a harsh noise in his throat and Jimin says, “Sorry, sorry Namjoon. I’m sorry.”

Namjoon’s fingers dig into Jimin’s biceps. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m fine. Just go slowly. You’re doing fine.”

Jimin nods. He wants so badly for this to be to be good for Namjoon. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. More slowly, he pushes in, hips flexing, thighs and ass tight. Namjoon’s eyes flutter, and then something shifts and Jimin slides in, presses forward so that his hips are flush up against Namjoon’s ass.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. Namjoon. Fuck.”

Namjoon laughs, a choked and strange noise. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty much.”

Jimin laughs too. He leans forward and kisses Namjoon.

It feels so good. Better than anything he’s ever felt. He feels like if he moves even a little bit he’ll lose it. Namjoon is so _tight_ and so good and so perfect. Jimin’s eyes sting.

“Just,” Namjoon says, voice intentionally calm. “Just move a little. Slowly.”

Jimin pulls back, and pushes slowly back in. It’s so _weird_ and so great. He can feel his balls slap into Namjoon’s ass and somehow that’s so embarrassing but Namjoon doesn’t seem to mind. Something about what Jimin is doing must be good for him because as Jimin moves he gasps and his heels dig into the small of Jimin’s back, urging him forward.

“This is okay?” Jimin wants to make sure. He doesn’t care how good this feels for him if it’s bad for Namjoon. 

“Yeah,” Namjoon says. “Just like that.” 

It’s just movement. It’s new, but it’s not that different than learning a new dance move. Jimin finds the rhythm. He leans forward. Namjoon reaches down and grabs his own cock, hand working slowly. Jimin breathes through his nose.

“You feel so fucking good,” he mumbles into Namjoon’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, quietly. “You, uh. You too.” He’s smiling, and it’s the smile – Namjoon’s smile, all perfect teeth and dimples – that undoes Jimin.

“Namjoon,” he says. “God.”

“That’s right,” Namjoon says, and he cracks up at his own stupid bad joke, and Jimin can’t stand it. Can’t stand how beautiful he is and how good this is and how bright and perfect everything feels. He laughs too. There’s no fear, no anxiety, none of the things he’s dreaded for so long. It feels good and natural and so, so close. He is so close. He’s never been closer to any person than he is to Namjoon right now.

The wet slide of his dick in and out of Namjoon is too much for him to handle. “Gonna,” he says, but he can’t get the rest of the words out.

He leans forward to kiss Namjoon again but just ends up kissing his neck, pale and spare. Jimin’s hips clench and he tries to keep the rhythm, and it’s hotter and tighter and better than he thought it would be, but softer too. Namjoon is right there, right next to him, with him for all of this, and that’s really the best part. Namjoon’s eyes are closed but he is smiling, dimples and all. His hands rest on the back of Jimin’s neck. He is so beautiful.

“Namjoon,” Jimin mumbles. His voice sounds strange in his own ears, over the rush of blood.

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say and it doesn’t matter because Namjoon kisses him, and he doesn’t know why that’s what finishes him but he feels some bolt of pleasure he can’t quite catch run up his spine and then all his muscles tense and he’s coming, shuddery and long.

His hips work through it and then still. His chest is heaving. Namjoon’s hand is still working his dick. Jimin puts his own hand on top of Namjoon’s, and leans forward to kiss him again. Namjoon’s dick brushes his stomach, weird through the condom, kind of, but not bad at all. Jimin can feel himself getting soft inside Namjoon. It’s so weird. Bodies are so fucking weird. He kisses Namjoon until he can feel Namjoon’s breath getting shallower and faster, until Namjoon is making small noises in his throat, until Namjoon stills and his eyelashes flutter and he comes too, with barely a noise.

Carefully, Jimin pulls out, and rolls onto his side. He takes off the condom and knots it. Namjoon does the same with his. Jimin waits awkwardly. What comes now? He can’t believe they … He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Is there something else?

But Namjoon puts one hand on Jimin’s, rubs his thumb in a little circle on Jimin’s palm. “You can go wash up first,” he says, and he smiles, and there is nothing at all but love in that smile.

*****

Namjoon runs his hand through his hair and smile at himself in the mirror. There's something to it, that post-coital glow. He feels easy and loose through his shoulders, which is where he holds all his tension. His cheeks are a little flush, but not nearly so much as Jimin's had been. He'd gone all pink, his cheeks and his neck and his chest.

He's so fucking cute. Namjoon has always thought that, but never in this way.

He braces his hands on the sink. His fingers slide on the cool porcelain. He's wanted this for a while now. _Wanted_ Jimin — been greedy for his body and his touch. And Jimin wanted him too. It didn't need to be a big deal, but it feels like one a little bit now. Not the act itself. That had been fine — much better than fine, actually, considering it was Jimin’s first time and he’d been so nervous. It’s more the idea itself that seems overwhelming.

He slept with Jimin. Jimin _fucked _him.__

__He splashes some water on his face and swallows. There’s no reason this should make things weird. No reason at all. He opens the door and pads down the hall back to the bedroom._ _

__The ceiling light is shut off in the bedroom, but it’s bright from the streetlights outside. The blinds create stripes of shadow and orange gold on Jimin's back. Although he talks like he’s an old man, his body is still that lean and athletic dancer's body. Namjoon follows the line of his spine down. Well-muscled shoulders, narrow waist, that unobtrusive scar. He'd forgotten about that, honestly. Jimin's round ass. His strong, thick thighs. He's so fucking beautiful. Namjoon feels almost guilty. He has no illusions about what he looks like, and he supposes he's handsome enough in his own way, but Jimin — Jimin is like art._ _

__Namjoon sits back down on the bed. Jimin's face is turned away from him, resting on his crossed arms. Namjoon thought he was sleeping, but he can see now that Jimin's shoulders are shaking, just a little, like he is struggling with some silent and barely contained emotion._ _

__He freezes. Is Jimin crying? Was it not good? Did he fuck this up? Was it —_ _

__Jimin rolls over onto his back, and oh. He's not crying. He's laughing. He's smiling that bright, broad smile of his, all white teeth and sunshine. His eyes are shut and his nose is wrinkled. He puts his hands over his face._ _

__"What?" Namjoon demands. “What’s so funny?”_ _

__"Ah god," Jimin says. "I can't believe I just lost my virginity on an air mattress."_ _

__He dissolves into giggles again._ _

__Namjoon, grinning, asks, "What did you expect? Rose petals and champagne?"_ _

__Jimin curls up on his side, smiling, kicks the blankets a little. "I don't know. Nothing. I never really thought about it."_ _

__Namjoon lies down facing Jimin, so that he can see his face. "Really?"_ _

__Jimin shrugs, an awkward motion. "Just ... I never thought it would happen, for me."_ _

__Namjoon frowns. "Why, Jimin? Why would you think that?"_ _

__Jimin squirms. His face is in shadow. All Namjoon can see is the bright gleam of his eyes, the fall of his dark hair over his forehead. "Don't know," he says. "Just ... I was too scared, and it seemed impossible anyway." He exhales. His breath is damp and sweet. "I never thought anyone would want me, that way."_ _

__Namjoon wants to laugh or cry. He doesn't understand how Jimin can think that. "I want you, Jimin," he says, low and serious. "I think you're — fuck. You're so fucking beautiful. It's crazy. And not just like — I mean, all of you. Your soul, or whatever. That’s beautiful. You're amazing."_ _

__Jimin exhales again, more a sigh this time. He doesn't protest, but Namjoon can see his disbelief in the wry, skeptical set of his mouth._ _

__Namjoon scoots closer, presses his mouth to the crook of Jimin's neck, the firm muscle there. "Next time," he says. "I'm going get us a room. There's gonna be flowers. Satin sheets. Champagne."_ _

__Jimin rolls his eyes and smiles. "I don't want that," he says, ducking his own head and after a moment of rearranging, tucking it under Namjoon's chin. Their feet tangle. Namjoon wraps his arms around Jimin's shoulders. "Just want you," he says._ _

__Namjoon closes his eyes. "Love you," he says, quietly, without even really meaning it, without knowing what he's saying._ _

__Jimin presses closer. "You too," he says, quietly. "Love you, Namjoon."_ _

__Namjoon brushes his fingers through Jimin's hair. Jimin slowly, slowly goes loose and easy and slips quietly into sleep. Namjoon lies awake, listening to Jimin's steady breathing, until he closes his eyes and falls asleep, a shallow and uneasy sleep full of vague dreams that he does not remember clearly in the morning._ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6! An old friend visits, and Jimin figures something out he'd prefer not to realize. We're getting pretty close to the end!
> 
> As always, if you enjoy this and are so inclined, I'd love it if you would comment and let me know :)

In the week before Hoseok comes, Jimin takes it upon himself to clean the apartment over Namjoon's strong objections.

"It's fine," Namjoon says, looking alarmed. "You’ve already cleaned everything. Hoseok can just put up with it." 

Jimin gives him a flat look. "How can it both be fine and something he has to put up with?" He shakes his head. "Don't worry. I don't mind. It gives me something to do while you're in class." 

Namjoon frowns. "I didn't ask you to come here so you could _work_. You're supposed to be like ... relaxing. And finding yourself. You know." 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "I know where I am, hyung." He goes back to sorting through the kitchen cabinets, but a little while later Namjoon calls him over to the couch. 

He takes the headphones he's wearing off and puts them on Jimin. "Check this out," he says. "Almost done. I heard they're going to play it for Selena Gomez, see if she wants it for her new album." 

Jimin doesn’t know exactly who that is but he recognizes that name, so he figures she's really famous. He listens for a moment, foot tapping in time to the rhythm. It's an up-tempo song with a lot of electronic elements, summery and really catchy. After two years in the army, Jimin isn't abreast of the latest musical trends, but he still knows a good song when he hears one. 

He remembers suddenly the thrill of hearing new material for the first time. It had always been exciting to be invited into the slightly rarified air of studio, and he’d always been eager and a little nervous to slip on the headphones and listen to the latest guide track. Sometimes he’d felt confident he could take what he heard and improve on it; other times – more often than he would have liked – he’d listen and know that the song would go to someone else – Jungkook or Taehyung or whoever. He misses that, misses _music_ : singing and recording and all of it. Even if he hadn’t been very good, he’d loved it. He’d sacrificed so much for that dream, and in the end he’d given it up without much fight. 

It makes his heart ache. 

When the song ends he takes off the headphones and hands them back to Namjoon. "It's good, hyung. Can't imagine BTS trying to do it, but I really like it.”

Namjoon grins. "Nah," he says. "You, Jungkookie, and Tae could have pulled it off. Vocal subunit song." 

It doesn't seem right to think of himself, Jeon Jungkook, and Kim Taehyung as though they're still some kind of group, as though anything other than coincidence binds them together. Jungkook is one of the most popular solo artists in Korea. Taehyung is starring in the year's hit drama. Jimin was making lattes for office workers before he turned tail and ran off to New York. 

God. Even making coffee had been too much for him. He needs to call his mom again, make sure everything is okay with the cafe. 

"Nah," Jimin says. His voice sounds thick. "I don't think we could have pulled it off. Maybe Jungkook. He can do anything, right?" 

It's meant as a joke, but Namjoon doesn't laugh. He just gets that pained look in his eyes that Jimin notices sometimes, like he’s done something to hurt Namjoon but Namjoon is too kind to mention it. 

“It’s a really good song, hyung,” Jimin says, smiling. He hands the headphones back to Namjoon. “I’m sure she’ll want it for her album.”

He gets most of the cleaning done while Namjoon is in class. He starts with the bathroom and throws out a bunch of expired medicine in the cabinet, empty bottles of shampoo in the shower. He cleans the grout with bleach and a scrub brush. Jimin isn't a neat freak, but he feels good about getting the place into shape. He wants Hoseok to be impressed with Namjoon: with his school and the thick books he reads and with his apartment. Mostly, he's just desperate to find something that makes him feel like he's doing something worthwhile with his life. 

Cleaning Namjoon's apartment isn't it, but it's better than nothing. In spite of everything he has right now: his health, for the most part, and the freedom to take off and come to New York, and Namjoon (most of all Namjoon), he still gets that hollow empty nothing feeling sometimes. The guilt he feels because of it is intense and terrible, but he’s not sure what to do except keep looking for something that will make that feeling go away. 

Hoseok is coming in on the evening flight. Namjoon has a morning class. After Namjoon leaves, Jimin washes all the floors — really washes, with a mop and bucket of soapy water. He cleans the windows with a newspaper (a trick his mother taught him). Then he showers and dresses and heads out to the farmer's market in Grand Army Plaza. 

Today the world feels good and cheerful, under a bright blue sky. Jimin puts on another pair of sunglasses stolen from Namjoon and enjoys the walk. The market isn't busy on a weekday, and he takes his time exploring the stalls selling winter apples and cabbages, organic sausages and aged raw milk cheese. He buys a loaf of nice bread and some things for dinner. He also gets a few bunches of tulips with fine ruffled petals, green bleeding to delicate pink and buttery cream.

At the apartment, he realizes Namjoon doesn't have a vase or anything to hold the flowers other than water glasses, so glasses it is. Jimin fills them with tulips and puts them on the mantel, on the dining room table, on the window sills. He’s not sure what they’ll drink out of, but the flowers make the apartment look bright and cheerful. Jimin feels satisfied with his work. He curls up in the corner of the couch with a book to wait for Namjoon to get home. 

He wakes when the door creaks open. He never did get anything to grease the squeaky hinge. Namjoon is in the doorway, toeing off his shoes. It's late afternoon, and the light is syrupy golden. Jimin's book has fallen to the floor. He stretches, throwing his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. 

"It looks amazing in here," Namjoon says. 

Jimin grins, feeling a rush of pride and pleasure. "I just tidied up," he says modestly.

Namjoon snorts. "Yeah, right," he says. "I think this is the cleanest this place has ever been. And you bought flowers." 

Jimin's cheeks feel hot, but he is happy. "I wanted it to look nice for Hoseok." 

Namjoon comes and sits down beside him on the couch. His hand comes to rest on the back of Jimin's neck. Jimin leans into Namjoon’s touch. 

"What time is Hoseok supposed to get here?" Jimin asks.

Namjoon slides his hand down Jimin's shoulder, down his waist, settles it low on Jimin's hip. 

"Around eleven, I think. His flight gets in at nine, but he has to get his bags and everything." 

"You're not going to meet him?" 

Namjoon shakes his head. "He's an adult," he says. "He can handle it himself." 

Jimin frowns. "I'm an adult too, you know. You came and met me." 

Namjoon scrunches his nose up. "I know," he says slowly, "but Hoseok is going to take a cab and expense it to the show. I didn’t want you to have to pay for that." 

"I could have figured out the subway," Jimin grumbles. 

Namjoon nods. "Of course you could have," he says distractedly.

They cuddle on the couch, watching reruns of Seinfeld and Friends. Namjoon somehow taught himself fluent English by watching these corny old sitcoms. It’s an amazing feat. Jimin wishes he had a quarter of Namjoon's faculty with language. He wishes he had even a tenth of Namjoon's talent or drive. 

He has always worked hard, been more than willing to work hard. The realization that hard work could not totally compensate for lack of talent was a long time in coming, but no less jarring for that. He can work himself to the point of exhaustion (has, in fact) but that won’t make up for the fact that he’s just not that good. 

It’s okay, though. It doesn’t matter anymore. He closes his eyes and presses his face into Namjoon’s shoulder. 

They are woken by the simultaneous noise of Namjoon's phone and the doorbell.   
Jimin blinks and sits up. He's too warm. He is lying on the couch with his head on Namjoon's thigh and Namjoon's arm heavy on his shoulder. Namjoon is yawning and stretching. He is rumpled, and the stretched out collar of his old tee shirt bares a wide span of pale shoulder and collarbone.

"Ah shit," Namjoon says, getting to his feet. He goes to unlock the front door. Jimin tries to pat his hair down. He fell asleep in his glasses. There are probably ugly red marks on his face.

He isn't nervous to see Hoseok, exactly. He's just not sure if things are going to be the same, or different in a good way, like with Namjoon, or different in a bad way, because Jimin enlisted and ruined any chance for a group comeback and then ignored them all like a coward.

Well. Probably not that last one, but he can’t help the way his chest goes tight with fear. 

The door opens. 

"Kim Namjoon!" Hoseok says, loudly. He sounds exactly the same. Jimin doesn't know why he wouldn't. He sounded the same on his variety show, after all. 

Hoseok's throws his arms around Namjoon, squeezing him tight. "Oh my god," he says. "I missed you, you big idiot." 

Namjoon looks sheepish but very happy. 

Jimin feels suddenly and irrationally like an intruder. Namjoon and Hoseok planned this reunion and now he's here to throw everything off. He wishes he could disappear somewhere — into the bedroom, or back to Busan, or preferably just into thin air. 

But then Hoseok sees him. His eyes narrow. 

"Park Jimin! If you don't get over here right now and give me a hug, I am never going to speak to you again." 

Relief floods through him. Hoseok hugs him too, pinning his arms to his side, holding him tight for a moment or two, before stepping back.

Scowling, Hoseok shakes his head. "I don't get it," he says. "You enlist and do your service and you still look like you're fifteen. I'm getting wrinkles." 

Hoseok isn't getting any wrinkles. He looks shockingly bright and refreshed for someone who was just on a plane for twelve hours. His hair is cut a little shorter than it used to be, but it's dyed light blue, which is a very flattering color on him. 

"You look great, hyung," Jimin says, smiling. "Really. My mom even said you looked good when we watched your show. 'That Hoseok is really taking care of himself.'" 

Hoseok laughs, delighted. "Your mom is the best, Jimin-ah." 

Hoseok is hungry, so while Namjoon gives him the tour of the apartment, Jimin sets the table and gets dinner ready. He's hungry too. They'd been waiting for Hoseok. He sets out the unmatched plates and bowls, the motley collection of silverware. Namjoon hadn't even had service for four — just a random collection of utensils. Jimin had picked up some extra forks and spoons and knives and some decent chopsticks at a discount store in Chinatown. 

"That smells amazing," Hoseok says, when he and Namjoon come into the dining room. 

Jimin beams. "I called my mom to get her recipe," he says.

Namjoon mock pouts. "How come you never made any secret family recipes for me?" 

Hoseok rolls his eyes, saving Jimin from having to come up with a reply. "He obviously likes me better. Always has, right, Jiminnie?" 

Jimin just smiles.

It is almost like old times. Almost. The food is a little better, and the conversation a little more stilted, an inevitable artifact of so long apart. Hoseok catches them up on everything — the variety show, a single he recorded and might release through Big Hit, the woman he's been dating, what the others are doing. Namjoon offers a cursory but satisfactory summary of his life in New York. Jimin feels sleepy and doesn't say much. It's enough just to sit there and listen to them talk, and remember how good it was all those years when they were together, before things went to shit. 

"And what about you?" Hoseok turns to Jimin, who has been pushing his food around his plate.

"Hmmm?" Jimin looks up, blinking. 

"Well," Hoseok says. 

"What?" Jimin wonders if he's missed some thread of conversation. 

"Park Jimin! I haven't seen you in three years. You've gone and done your army service and you've got the ugly haircut to prove it. Tell me how you are!" 

Jimin runs his hand over his hair self-consciously, trying to smooth it down. It's growing out but still at an awkward length.

"I don't know," he says. "I'm okay, I guess." 

Hoseok rolls his eyes. "You can fool Namjoon with that 'I'm okay' talk, but I know your game. Tell me all the details. How was it? How was boot camp? How was your service? You were in Daejeon, right?" 

"Yeah," Jimin says. He doesn't really want to talk about this, but he feels like he has some kind of obligation. For the first time, he's the _expert_. "Campus guard. It was ... fine." 

Hoseok's face falls. "You didn't have to dig the Dean a swimming pool with a tablespoon? Or cut his lawn with scissors?" 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "Nothing like that," he says, laughing. "It was really boring, honestly. I had five shifts a week in the guard house. We just sat there, and if someone drove up, we checked their credentials and let them in." 

Hoseok frowns. "What about boot camp? Was your sergeant an asshole?" 

Jimin shakes his head again. "He was fine," he says. There were a few guys in his division who'd had trouble, but Jimin was already used to working hard and following orders. It hadn't been that much different than being an idol, in some ways. 

Less applause. More food. Slightly more sleep, most days. 

"It had been hard," Jimin says, shrugging. “Not that hard though. Not as bad as preparing for a comeback.”

"Eh," Hoseok says, side eyeing him. "You're too good at everything. Of course it was no problem for you." 

Jimin has never heard anything so ridiculous. "I just don't like to make a fuss," he says. "Tell us about your show. Where are you filming while you're here?" 

Hoseok happily tells them about the show, about the good reception it’s had in Korea, about the club they're visiting, the trendy boutiques in Williamsburg, about the grungy Brooklyn loft where they're going to film a segment. It is honestly very interesting and even better is hearing Hoseok speak about something he clearly cares so much about. 

Around midnight they call it a night. Hoseok keeps hiding his yawns behind his hand. The dishes are stacked in the sink. Jimin will do them in the morning. Namjoon makes up a bed for Hoseok on the couch. Hoseok brushes off Namjoon's repeated offer of the air mattress. 

"No way," Hoseok says. "That sounds awful. Namjoon, how are you almost thirty years old and still sleeping on an air mattress?" 

Namjoon smiles awkwardly and shrugs. Jimin, thinking of the present he bought, feels a secret little thrill of pleasure. 

Once he has washed his face and brushed his teeth and run the electric pump to inflate the mattress back up to full pressure, Jimin crawls into bed. He's very tired. A few moments later, Namjoon slides into the covers beside him 

"Is Hoseok okay?" Jimin asks.

"Yeah," Namjoon says. "He's good." He is quiet for a moment. 

Jimin slides closer, pressing his forehead into Namjoon's chest. Namjoon's hand slides over his waist. 

"It’s good to see him," Jimin says. 

Namjoon doesn't say anything, but Jimin can feel him nod. 

"I missed him," Jimin says, quietly. 

"Yeah," Namjoon says. 

I miss all of them, Jimin thinks. God. He misses it all so much. He hates feeling this way when he is lying in Namjoon’s arms. He wonders if that longing will ever go away. 

*****

Namjoon has class the following morning. He goes into the city early, before Jimin wakes up. Jimin moves through the house quietly, trying not to wake their guest. He showers quietly and dresses quietly and sits at the table with his phone and his book, trying not to make a sound. When Hoseok wakes a few hours later, Jimin is still sitting there, drinking a cup of tea.

"Good morning," Jimin says, smiling. "How are you feeling, hyung?" 

"Tired as hell," Hoseok says. He looks tired. His face falls when he sees Jimin's cup of tea — it's not even real tea, just chamomile. "Don't you have coffee, Jimin-ah?" 

He sounds so plaintive that Jimin laughs. "Get dressed and we can go get some." 

A half an hour later they are on the street. Jimin texted Namjoon to let him know they'd meet him in Manhattan when he got out of class. He's made the trip often enough now that he's confident in his ability not to get Hoseok lost. 

"Ah," Hoseok says, throwing back his head. "It's so warm here!" 

The sun is shining and the sky is deep blue. It feels like spring, really and truly. It feels like the world has woken up and the sap is flowing.

Still. "Namjoon says we could get snow again." 

"Namjoon is a born pessimist," Hoseok says. "You spend too long around him and you're going to get gloomy." 

Jimin laughs. "I don't think the philosophy is improving his outlook." 

Hoseok grins. “A few months back he was texting me in the middle of the night about the categorical imperative. I think he was drunk.” 

They get coffee at Namjoon's favorite cafe. Hoseok rolls his eyes when he sees the poured cement floor, the subway tiles on the wall, the elegant, retro light fixtures. "Should have known Namjoon would be living in an Instagram post." 

Jimin giggles and orders them both iced lattes. 

They drink their coffee while they walk to the subway. They have plenty of time, and it’s a nice day, so they walk slowly. It is hot out, and Jimin takes off his sweatshirt. He smiles, and pushes Namjoon's sunglasses up his nose. 

"It really agrees with you," Hoseok says, looking at Jimin sidelong. 

"What?"

Hoseok shrugs, loose and easy. He's still got the same old grace, the same comfort in his body. Jimin always envied that. "Being here, I guess. You just look ..." He waves a hand. "I don't know. You just look good. Happy." 

Jimin smiles, ducking his head. "Thanks. I am, I think." He’s not sure yet that he is, but he’s trying so hard.

Hoseok takes a sip of his coffee. "Soooo," he says. "Namjoon asked you to come visit, huh? You must be special.” He humphs. “He never asked me. I practically had to beg for an invitation.” 

“I think he just felt bad for me,” Jimin says reflexively. 

Hoseok snorts. "Why would he feel bad for you?" 

Jimin shrugs. "Just ... cause." 

"I don't think so," Hoseok says. He's quiet for a moment. A car horn blares loud, and Jimin startles. "You don't think that, right? Park Jimin? You don't think _I_ felt bad for you, or something stupid like that, right?"

Is Hoseok really going to make him admit it? "No ... I don't know. I would feel bad for me, if I were you." 

"Well," Hoseok says. "I don't." He frowns. "You're Park Jimin. You're awesome. You’re the best, and you work harder than any of us." 

"A lot of good that did me," Jimin mutters. 

Hoseok pokes him in the side. "Hey! None of that. You can do anything you want, Jimin. I have 100% total confidence in your ability to kick ass." 

Jimin frowns down at his feet. "I guess," he says.

"Ehhh," Hoseok says. "Cut it out with the false modesty. I don't think that, and I know Namjoon doesn't either." He bumps Jimin with his shoulder. "What's going on with you two, anyway? Are you dating?”

Jimin’s shock must show on his face because Hoseok laughs and laughs, the loud slightly goofy laugh that Jimin missed so much. 

“Relax,” Hoseok says, grinning. “Namjoon let it slip. You two didn’t really think you could keep a secret from _me_ , did you?” 

In hindsight, this seems very unlikely. Jimin shrugs. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I should have said something.” 

Hoseok puts his hands over Jimin’s. “Jimin, don’t worry,” he says. “I think it’s really cute. But what’s the deal? I tried to grill Namjoon for details but he was being all vague and stuff. Are you and he like, together? Or is this just some fling?” 

Jimin laughs. “Not a fling,” he says, then sighs. "Hyung, I don't know. I mean, I think we’re dating but we haven’t really talked about it. I … I really like him.” He feels all sharp and hot even saying that out loud. He never in his wildest dreams thought that he would find what he has with Namjoon, never, never thought he could share it with his friends, that they might be happy for him. 

Hoseok beams. "You like him. You love him," he sing-songs. "You want to get married and have adorable little marshmallow-y dimply babies." 

Jimin pouts, but secretly he's a little thrilled. Does he love Namjoon? He’s said it, but he’s still not sure if he can distinguish the deeper, older love of friendship from being _in_ love. He knows there's a certain way that Namjoon smiles that makes his heart go 'throb throb'. He knows he likes when Namjoon holds him close at night. He knows that he thinks Namjoon is hot, sexy, gorgeous – everything. He knows that he feels closer to Namjoon right now than he ever has to anyone else in the world. Does all of that add up to in love? He isn’t sure.

“I dunno,” he says lamely. “It’s all still kind of new. I guess we’ll figure it out.” 

They're at the subway, finally. Jimin lets Hoseok swipe first, and then he swipes himself. They head down the tunnel toward the Q train. It pulls up as they're at the top of the stairs. Jimin starts running, dragging Hoseok behind him. "Come on," he calls. 

They slide into a pair of empty seats by the door, breathless and giggling. 

"You almost got me smashed by the door!" Hoseok says, mock outraged. 

"They have sensors," Jimin says. He'd gotten spooked too, the first time, before he'd seen how the doors would come _this_ close to closing on you but would spring back just in the nick of time. "You would have been fine!" 

Hoseok throws his head back. "I didn't know I'd be taking my life in my hands on this trip." 

Jimin rolls his eyes, but secretly he's missed Hoseok's flair for the dramatic. 

Hoseok moans a little more, and then starts in on a diatribe about how the Seoul subway is cleaner and faster and nicer than this. 

Jimin doesn't disagree. Still, there's something charming about the aging cars with their yellow and orange seats. He encourages the topic, because it's thankfully far removed from any discussion of Namjoon.

But Hoseok can be like a dog with a bone when he wants. He won't let go. He pokes Jimin in the side as they emerge up into the bustle of Chinatown. It's annoying and Jimin grabs onto his finger to get him to stop. 

"Cut it out," he says. 

"You never answered my question," Hoseok says. "You're Park Jimin, and you can do anything you want." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Including Namjoon, if that's your thing."

Jimin groans. "You're awful," he says. 

Hoseok grins. "Don't lie. You missed me." He slides his arm through Jimin's, delighted and smiling. 

"Yeah," Jimin says. "I really did."

“Sooo,” Hoseok says, sliding his sunglasses. “You and Namjoon are a thing, but you don’t know what kind of thing. What are you going to do when you go home? You planning talk to him about that, kiddo?” 

Jimin shrugs. “Yeah, I mean … I guess I have to, right?” 

He does. Already he dreads the thought of it. 

“I think so, Jimin-ah,” Hoseok says gently. “Unless you two are going to run away to fairyland or something. Which, honestly, doesn’t sound like that bad of a plan. Let me know if you figure out how, fairy-nim.” 

Jimin smacks him in the shoulder again. “Quit it,” he says, but he’s smiling. Inside, though, a seed of worry is sprouting. New York City isn’t fairyland but he likes it here, likes not having to worry about anyone and anything. He doesn’t want that to end. He knows that if – when – he goes back, everything will be different again, and he can’t stand the thought of that, not when the present moment is so full of good and bright things, full of a happy promise he never dared expect. 

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, finally, reaching for Hoseok’s hand. “Namjoon and I will, together. Now come on. We can go hang out at the coffee shop by Namjoon’s school until he’s done with class.” 

*****

Namjoon has an aching headache that persists all morning. He takes a few Tylenol, but it doesn't help much. It's not a shock, exactly. It’s been three days since Hoseok arrived and he feels like he’s been going a hundred miles an hour the whole time. They'd been out late the night before — he and Hoseok and Jimin — and he'd had too much to drink. It had been tempting to skip class and stay in bed, especially when his alarm had gone off and Jimin had turned over in his arms and blinked up at him, drowsy and comfortable, and asked him to turn it off. 

But he'd come to class anyway. He has sacrificed so much to get this degree, and he isn't going to let anything jeopardize it now, not when he is so close. If he takes summer classes, he could be done after the fall term. Kim Namjoon: a real, live college graduate. 

He doesn't know what comes after that. 

But right now sitting in a cold classroom with his head throbbing and trying to concentrate on the teacher's lecture about modal logic, he thinks he must have been crazy to leave that warm nest of blankets, with sweet, sleep-pliant Jimin clinging to him. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them. The teacher drones on. 

He hasn't had a night like last night in a long time. They'd gone to one bar and then another and then another. Hoseok had been in high spirits. Jimin had been a little quiet, but his eyes had been bright, and they had talked and talked and talked for so long about everything. About the old days — before they'd even debuted when everything had seemed so distant and unreal, and the early years when they'd struggled so much, and about the sudden ascent when everything had gotten faster and brighter and more wonderful than Namjoon had thought possible. 

And they had talked, awkwardly and mostly at Hoseok's insistence, about the bad times too. Prodding and digging in his persistent way, Hoseok had gotten Jimin to open up, a little, about his injury and his surgery and everything that had happened after. 

Namjoon had known, vaguely, that there had been talk of Jimin releasing an EP during that strange in-between time when he’d first come here to prepare for his American debut, but he had not known that Jimin had recorded the songs and been in preparation for promotions when he'd pulled out and enlisted against the company’s wishes. 

Namjoon feels awful for not knowing, worse for never asking. It’s a glaring oversight. 

He has never seen Jimin look as defeated as he did last night, hand slack around a highball glass, head hanging. "The choreography was too hard," he'd said, quietly. "The doctors said it was okay for me to start dancing again but I kept thinking about how badly it had hurt when I injured my back. I kept thinking what would happen if I got hurt again. What if I did something even worse and it never stopped hurting? And it's not like I'm Jungkook ... if I couldn't dance, what was the point?" 

Hoseok had ribbed him gently, "You know that's not true, kiddo." 

Jimin had just shrugged, eyes downcast, and taken a sip of his drink. 

Namjoon had called Jimin of course, right after the surgery. They had spoken for a few minutes about how Jimin was doing, how bored he was laid up in bed at his parents’ house, how Namjoon’s promotions in the States were going. (They weren’t going _at all_ , but he hadn’t let Jimin know that.) Jimin had sounded tired and Namjoon had ended the call with an admonition for Jimin to get some sleep. Things had been bad for Namjoon then, and they had gotten worse quickly. His own worries had pushed everything else out of his mind until he’d gotten the news from Yoongi that Jimin had enlisted. It had been a shock, of course, but in his selfishness he’d dismissed it. Jimin had always been ambitious, and Namjoon thought it made some sense actually, enlisting early and getting his service out of the way. He’d still be so young when he got out, and he’d have his whole future ahead. 

“I never knew you recorded tracks for an EP,” Namjoon said, frowning. “I want to listen, Jimin-ah.” 

“Ah, hyung,” Jimin said. “I don’t have the songs any more. Probably the company does but …” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, now.” He rested one cheek on his folded arms, looking away from Namjoon. 

Namjoon had opened his mouth to protest – why doesn’t matter now? – but Hoseok had caught his eye and frowned and shaken his head and then gracefully led the conversation onto a different track. 

Namjoon was left with a bitter taste in his mouth that no amount of alcohol could wash away, even though he drank a lot more after that.

He’s paying for it now. Hoseok had to start filming today. Namjoon doesn’t have any idea how he’s going to manage that. He’s envious of Jimin, who hadn’t drank as much to start with and who had groaned unhappily when Namjoon had gotten up but had rolled over and gone back to sleep right away, face pressed into the pillow.

Muddled and feeling a little sick, Namjoon endures the final 15 minutes of class. When it's done, he gathers his laptop into his bag and stands up. He's done for the day and he can go home now. That’s something to be thankful for. 

It's a long tired slog on the subway. He puts in his headphones and ignores the way his stomach lurches with the slow sway of the train. It's a relief when he finally gets to his stop. It's only the afternoon, but he's kind of hungry. He texts Jimin to see if he wants to meet up and get pizza or something, but he hasn't heard back by the time he gets to his building. Perhaps Jimin has gone out? 

But he hears music playing in the apartment as he unlocks the door. When he opens it, though, he doesn't see Jimin in the living room or at the table or in the kitchen. 

"Hello?" 

"I'm in your room," Jimin says. 

Namjoon sets down his bag. There is a very large piece of cardboard in the hallway. The air mattress sits a deflated heap outside of the bedroom door. Inside his room, there is a new futon sitting in the middle of the floor. 

Jimin, hanging clothes up in the closet, peers out, smiling shyly. "Hi." 

"Hey," Namjoon says, and he is struck with the urge to kiss Jimin, run his fingers through Jimin's tousled hair. "What's this?" 

Jimin smile is a thousand watts bright. "Your surprise." 

Namjoon laughs. "You bought me a futon?" 

Jimin nods. "You're going to hurt your back if you keep sleeping on that air mattress. You have to take care of yourself, Namjoon-ah. You’re not as young as you used to be, you know." 

Namjoon smiles. He feels all strange and warm inside. "Wow, Jimin. You look out for me way too well. Are you sure you're not the hyung?" 

"Eh," Jimin says. His cheeks are red, and his eyes scrunched. "It's payback. You took care of me for long enough." 

Namjoon feels suddenly unworthy of Jimin’s attention, of his calm and constant affection for so long – not just now, but for years. “Well,” he says, awkwardly, struggling with the inadequacy of his words. “Thank you, Jimin, really. It’s going to be great to sleep on an actual bed. Where’d you get it?” 

Jimin looks pleased. "I found the store when I was walking around waiting for you one day. They've been in the same location for sixty years or something, and they make everything by hand. I thought you'd really like that." 

"I do," Namjoon says. And he does. He understands the allure of devoting oneself wholeheartedly to a single pursuit, and he admires anyone who follow such a passion for so long without tiring.

Jimin smile. "We should go back some time," he says. "You would like the man who owns it. They make platform beds too, but they were really expensive. I didn't ..." He shrugs. 

"This was more than enough, Jimin," Namjoon says. "You didn't have to do anything for me." 

"But I wanted to," Jimin says, stubbornly. 

"Thank you," Namjoon says. Awkward, he lays down on his back on the futon. It is soft and comfortable. Much better than the air mattress. "This is amazing." He closes his eyes and pats the futon beside him.

Jimin lies down beside Namjoon, close enough that their arms brush, close enough that Namjoon can feel his body heat. "Comfortable," he says. 

"Mmmm," Namjoon says. The world has contracted to just this room: the soft futon on the wooden floor, the clothes hanging neatly in the closet (all Jimin's work), the afternoon light coming through the windows, the curtains rustling at the slightest touch of a breeze. And Jimin. Mostly Jimin. 

Namjoon rolls over onto his side so he's facing Jimin, who is staring up at the ceiling. In profile, his eyelashes look so long. His hair is a black smudge on the green futon. He looks at Jimin and feels all of it: he's such a good person and such a kind heart and so beautiful, and Namjoon has never known anyone who works as hard as Jimin does. He has known so many people and loved more than a few of them but he is not sure that he's ever admired anyone as much as he admires Jimin. 

"You're ..." 

Jimin looks over at him, eyes bright. He rolls onto his side so that they're facing each other, and tucks his hands up against his chest. There are certain mannerisms unique to him that Namjoon finds so charming, so perfectly Jimin. With anyone else they would seem contrived, but there is no contrivance with Jimin — he is exactly who he is, and never anything else. 

Namjoon doesn't know what kind of name to put to the thing growing between them. It's not like anything he's felt before. It’s wonderful but overwhelming. Brilliant and blinding, like staring into the sun.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says. 

Jimin smiles soft and pleased. 

Namjoon shuffles closer, awkwardly, and slides a hand under Jimin's neck, sliding fingers through his hair. Jimin licks his lips — they are red and plush. Their knees knock together. Jimin's arms are still pressed into his chest. The neck of his sweater has slipped down, revealing a circle of pale soft skin. 

"You are so beautiful," Namjoon says. "You really have no idea." 

And he kisses Jimin, pressing forward, warm and soft and slow. 

"'m not," Jimin says, mumbling.

"Yeah," Namjoon says. He rubs his thumb against Jimin's lower lip. "Think so." 

Jimin shakes his head. His eyes are lowered, but his cheeks are pink and he is smiling so broadly. "You're crazy." 

Jimin looks up at him. It is true that he looks older now, and his hair is not dyed, and he isn't wearing the circle lenses he used to wear that made him look unreal and perfect. But his eyes are bright and there is a smile playing on his lips that makes Namjoon's heart ache, and Namjoon has never seen him look more beautiful. 

He kisses Jimin again, and keeps kissing him. Jimin is trembling and delighted and there with him, so close. In that moment there is nothing else Namjoon cares about in the whole world. 

Much later, the light has graded from gold to violet, and Namjoon is almost, almost asleep. His body is warm and soft and sensitive, and his eyelids are so heavy. Jimin's arms are wrapped around his waist, and Jimin's head is tucked under his chin. Namjoon wants the clocks to stop. He wants to stay here in this moment forever. That would be nice, he thinks. Just this, forever. 

"You should stay here," he says, drowsy and barely aware of what he's saying. 

"Hmmm?" Jimin makes an indistinct noise. 

"Stay here," Namjoon says. "Don't go back to Seoul." 

Jimin shuffles in Namjoon's arms, not pulling away, but getting more comfortable. "I don't have a visa," he says drowsily. "I can't stay, Namjoon-ah." 

"Doesn't matter," Namjoon says. A visa is nothing, just a technicality. "We'd figure it out." 

"You're ridiculous," Jimin says quietly, but he hugs Namjoon tighter. 

The words are out before Namjoon can stop them. "I love you," he says, and even though it isn't rational at all, he thinks that should be enough. I love you, so stay. 

That is the most he can give. 

Jimin shudders, so faintly, and pulls closer. “I love you too,” he says, but he doesn’t say anything else about staying or going. He tips his mouth up, and kisses Namjoon again, and soon the talk of staying is forgotten in favor of sweeter and more immediate concerns. 

Namjoon doesn’t forget though, and he resolves to ask again at a better time, after Jimin has had a chance to think about it, before he closes his eyes and melts into the soft sweet sensation of Jimin’s kiss.

****

There is one final shoot the day before Hoseok is due to return to Seoul, and Namjoon and Jimin have been invited as guests.

"Where are they filming again?"

From the other room, Namjoon replies, "I think some place in Chelsea. He sent me the address." 

Jimin doesn't know where Chelsea is. Sometimes he thinks that Namjoon forgets he's only been here for a little while. Sometimes he forgets too. It seems so much longer. Time moves differently here, when every day seems so long and full and rich. 

"What time do we have to be there?" 

"Hoseok said to be there by nine. They're going to do most of the shoot before the club opens." 

"Mmm," Jimin says. 

Tonight, he is trying to look the part. He remembers being amazed how the makeup artists and stylists could take his soft, round features and make them striking. With circle lenses and enough contouring, he felt like a totally different person. He is hoping that his own pale imitation of their art will help him feel like a different person tonight.

The bag of makeup he bought at the Duane Reade down the block is dumped out on the bathroom counter. He went all out: black eyeliner, rosy eyeshadow, mascara, even some something glossy for his lips and something shimmery to rub on his cheekbones. He doesn't look like he used to, of course, and his hair is all wrong. He doesn't have circle lenses any more, and those made a big difference too. 

Still, the makeup helps. 

Namjoon has called him beautiful so many times and looks at him with hunger in his eyes and touches him like he is something precious and fragile, and Jimin knows what those things mean but he doesn't _feel_ them in a way that makes any difference. He is still just him, and he is not sure if that will ever feel like enough.

But if there's anything being an idol taught him it's how to fake it. 

He dabs on some lip gloss and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is messy, and his eyes are smoky and he is wearing a black tee shirt that is loose and falls low on his collarbones, tucked into tight black jeans. 

Okay. He can do this. He can play this part for tonight. 

Namjoon whistles when Jimin walks into the bedroom. "Damn." 

Jimin feels his cheeks heat up. "What?" He wraps his arms around himself. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes. "'What?' You look really, really good. God. Jimin." 

"You look really good too," Jimin says. But Namjoon always does. 

Namjoon gets to his feet and puts a hand on Jimin's back. He pulls him in close, so they are pressed all together. He kisses Jimin, a little roughly. This is still all so new, and Jimin loves it. God. He loves Namjoon, and how thoughtful and kind he is. He loves the way Namjoon makes him feel like a person again.

"You have no idea, Park Jimin," Namjoon says, low in his throat. "You really have no idea." 

"Mmm," Jimin says, unsure what he doesn't have an idea about. He glances down at his phone. "We had better get going or we're going to be late." 

They wait for the Lyft on the curb. Jimin doesn't wear a jacket and there is gooseflesh on his arms from the cold. The day had been warm, but it is only April and the night is cool. Still, he doesn't want to have to carry a jacket around the club. Namjoon puts an arm around him, and Jimin presses into his side. 

In the backseat of the car, Jimin rests his head on Namjoon's shoulder and watches the streets rush past in a blur of red and peach light, street signs, neon in shop windows, people walking past, the intermittent glimpses of distant skyscrapers. It is strange to think they’re going to meet Hoseok. Jimin feels like he could be going anywhere in the entire world. He closes his eyes, and weaves his fingers into Namjoon's, squeezing, pulling Namjoon close, like the heat of his body is some kind of affirmation. He doesn’t let go. 

The club is nondescript outside, but there is a long line of people waiting to get in. There are all the sorts of people Jimin would expect – young, beautiful, and well dressed. Wealthy. The car drops them off down the street. Jimin stays close to Namjoon's side. They wait near the head of the line while Namjoon texts Hoseok. It's colder out than he expected, and Jimin wishes he'd worn a coat. He feels too exposed.

Hoseok comes out of the front door, beaming. "Helllooooo friends!" he says loudly in Korean. He is wearing heavy makeup and very tight black pants. He whistles when he sees them. "Damn, you two look good." 

Namjoon laughs. 

"You look great too, hyung,” Jimin says. 

Hoseok pats his cheek. "You’re such a charmer, Jimin. Come on! Let me get you in and introduce you to everyone." 

They press in through the crowd. Hoseok tells the stern man at the door that they're with him, and they are whisked inside, to the chagrin of all the people waiting on line. The party hasn't started yet, so it is quiet and dark. Hoseok leads them into a small warren of back stage rooms that have been taken over by the production staff of his show. 

Hoseok knocks on a door and opens it without waiting for an answer. They follow him into a dark, small room where an older woman is sitting on a folding chair. There's a rather filthy couch pushed against one wall. The woman, Jimin thinks, shows extremely good judgement by not sitting on that couch. 

"Nuna," Hoseok says. "Look who I brought!" He pushes Jimin and Namjoon forward with a gentle hand on the small of the back. "Gyusun nuna is a huge fan." 

Jimin recognizes the woman from the episodes of Hoseok's show he's watched, and from some movies and dramas she's been in over the years. She's got one of those strong faces that isn't exactly pretty and, accordingly, she's always playing the female lead's older sister or spunky friend or funny coworker. She had a breakout role in a drama last year, and her profile has risen so that she is now a fixed member of Hoseok’s show.

Jimin bows low. "It's so nice to meet you, sunbaenim." 

"Gyusun nuna was especially a big fan of _yours_ , Jimin," Hoseok says, grinning. "I promised her you'd come to say hello." 

Jimin feels his cheeks go hot, but he's smiling. He's out of practice at gracefully accepting fans' affection. "Hello," he says, aware that he’s blushing and feeling a little embarrassed of it.

"It's so nice to meet you," Gyusun says, smiling. She is friendly and cheerful. "I’m a bit old to be a fan of idols, but my daughters started listening, and well ..." She spreads her hands in resignation. "You are very charming and talented young men."

Namjoon, always professional, thanks her profusely. 

They talk to Gyusun for a while. Some of the other staff and cast come in, and Jimin and Namjoon say their hellos to them too. Finally, it is time for filming to begin. The cast are escorted away one by one. Jimin and Namjoon follow Hoseok out, and Jimin is surprised to see that the club is dark and full of people now. This place is what he expects a club to be: teeming with beautiful people spending a lot of money and not having very much fun. There is a VIP section set off on a raised area of the floor, behind some velvet ropes. Attractive waitresses in skimpy dresses circulate through the crowd. Music throbs, overpowering the conversation. 

The production crew stages a few shots. It takes a long time to position the lights and the cameras. While they prep for each shot, the crowd jostles and mills. 

"Want a drink?" Namjoon says, loud in Jimin's ear. 

"Yeah," Jimin says, because there's something about this atmosphere that is making him nervous. There's something about the cameras and lights that reminds him too much of the way things used to be. That damn red light had been his worst enemy, once up on a time. He's just one of the crowd now, but he can’t stop looking over at where they’re filming.

Namjoon comes back with a drink for him. "Vodka and tonic," he says, pushing the damp glass into Jimin's hand. Jimin takes a long sip, grateful.

After her shoot, Gyusun comes over. She is beaming and sweaty, dabbing at her forehead with a paper towel. 

"Oh my goodness," she says. "I'm way too old for this kind of thing." 

"No, you aren't," Namjoon says, brightly. "You looked great out there, nuna." 

"You don’t have to charm me, Namjoon. I’m already a fan," she says, laughing. A production assistant hands her a bottle of water.

She drinks it down, and pats her forehead again. "You boys should get out there. I'm sure the viewers would rather see you two dancing." 

Jimin shakes his head. "Oh," he says. "No, I don't ... um." 

He'd been going to say that he doesn't want to be on camera, that he doesn't want the others to know he's here, but they all know anyway, don't they? At this point, Yoongi has probably told them all. He'd been an idiot to think he could pull the wool over their eyes. They were his _best friends_. They respected him enough to give him space, but how had he thought that he could just write them out of his life? He feels ashamed he ever tried. 

"I'm not much of a dancer anymore," he says, lamely, after an awkward pause. 

"Oh, I don't believe that," Gyusun says. "You were always so talented." 

Jimin laughs awkwardly. “It was more hard work than talent,” he says. Every word is like pulling teeth. “And it’s been a really long time since I’ve danced at all. I’m probably no good.” 

"Ehhh," Namjoon says. "That's not possible, Jimin-ah." 

Hoseok is shooting a solo scene. Jimin can’t help but watch him. The music is thrumming and liquid, something Jimin has never heard before but really likes. Hoseok moves as beautifully as he did when he was twenty. There is something so natural about the way he draws the eye when performing that Jimin has always envied. He envies it even more now, when he feels totally stripped of grace. 

The song ends. Sweating and happy, Hoseok pushes through the crowd to rejoin their little circle. "How did I do?" 

Namjoon beams at him. "You looked really awesome, hyung." 

Hoseok preens. "Of course I did." He glances at Jimin. "Soooo, the PD is wondering if the two of you want to be in a shot." 

Namjoon glances over at Jimin, as if checking Jimin’s response before he responds. 

Jimin frowns. He doesn't know why the PD would even want them on camera. He feels nervous and a little more drunk than he realized. “I don’t know, hyung … It really has been a long time.” 

Namjoon pouts. "It'll be fun, Jiminnie," he says. "Come on. You love dancing." 

Jimin frowns. "Not anymore," he says. "You go. I’ll stay here and keep Gyusun nuna company." 

Namjoon looks troubled. He opens his mouth as if to say something but a PA comes up and calls Hoseok back onto the dance floor. Namjoon follows as the minder leads them both away. He looks back at Jimin and frowns. Jimin busies himself with his drink and pretends not to notice. 

"You should go have fun with your friends," Gyusun says. "You don't need to keep an old woman like me company, Jimin." 

Jimin smiles as well as he can manage. "It's okay, nuna. I really ... I really don't dance much anymore. After I hurt my back I kind of quit.” 

She frowns at him. Although she looks nothing like his mother, there is something wise and maternal in her expression that makes him miss his mother terribly. "Why? Are you hurt still?" 

"No," Jimin says. "I mean, the doctor said I could dance again. I just ... I'm not getting any younger, right? I’m probably just going to hurt myself again. I’m not even any good anymore." 

"Ah," she says, calmly. "It's okay to be scared." 

"I wasn't _scared_ ," he objects immediately, and then murmurs an apology for his rude and abrupt tone. 

But the truth is he had been scared. He'd been scared when the company wanted him to go solo, and he'd used his back as an excuse, and then he used enlistment as an excuse, and now years have passed and he doesn’t need excuses any more. It is too late. It is all gone.

He closes his eyes. His drink is empty, but he wants another. Out on the dance floor, Namjoon and Hoseok are dancing. They look like they are having the time of their lives. Hoseok says something that makes Namjoon laugh. Jimin can close his eye and remember being out there with them — not at a club, of course, but on stage with BTS. 

He has never in his life felt happier than he did on stage with his best friends. Even when the rest of it was bad — even when he disappointed the fans or was tired or messed up or just not good enough — being on stage has always been the most incredible thing in the world. 

How had he given that up? 

"It's not too late, you know," Gyusun says. 

"What?" 

"To go out there and dance." She smiles. "To go out there and do whatever you want! Look at me ... I was told to give up a million times. I was told I was too old and too plain to be an actress. I know I'll never be Kim Tae Hee, but I'm having the best time of my life right now." She narrows her eyes. "How old are you, Jimin?" 

"Twenty six," he says, frowning. 

"Oh," she says, hand to her mouth. "You're just a baby." 

Jimin frowns and starts to protest. People keep saying that but he’s already been through so much.

"No," she says. "Let me talk for a minute. I know it doesn’t feel this way, but you are still so young, Jimin. You have so much time. Don't let your fear get in the way of the rest of your life, okay?" 

He sighs. "I'm not afraid," he says. "I just ..." 

"Go out there," she says, smiling. "Go to your friends. You’ll regret it if you don’t, I think." 

He thinks she is right, but he hesitates a moment longer. She pushes him forward with a gentle hand on the small of his back. 

He steps into the crowd. 

It is hot and close, and for a moment Jimin feels overwhelmed. The anonymity the crowd grants is terrifying and wonderful all at once. Although this is a shoot for Hoseok's variety show these people are not here because of some Korean celebrities. They are here to party – extras got free entry and a free drink if you waived your television rights was the deal, according to Hoseok. Nobody knows who Jimin is, who he _was_ , and that is intensely reassuring. 

He can't see exactly where Namjoon and Hoseok are. He apologizes as he pushes past people. The music starts again, something with a slow, dark bassline that he can feel in his bones. The crowd starts to churn. The lights dim again. It's hard to see where he's going. There aren't so much people on the dance floor as shapes moving through the semi-translucent darkness. There is an arm, graceful and curved. There the line of someone’s back. There a naked shoulder. There a throat, tipped up and bare. 

He sees the light and pushes through until he is on the edge of the circle of cleared space where Namjoon and Hoseok are. He hesitates, watching. Hoseok moves as beautifully as he ever has: smooth and clean and full of emotion. When Hoseok dances all of his normal lightness and frivolity disappears and he becomes focused and economical of motion. Jimin has always envied that ability. Even at the best of times, he has always felt terribly anchored in his mundane flesh. He practice and practice and practiced and always felt like there was some secret technique no amount of practice would ever let him master. 

Jimin almost steps back into the crowd, but Namjoon sees him. He beams.

"Jimin! You’re here!"

Jimin presses forward, stumbling, nearly falling into Namjoon's arms. Namjoon steadies him with a hand on his waist. 

"Hey!" he says, beaming.

"Hey," Jimin says, smiling back, because how can he not return Namjoon's smile? It’s like a lifeline.

"I told you he'd come dance," Hoseok says, throwing an arm over both of their shoulders. "This is Park Jimin we're talking about, isn't it?" 

Jimin feels that same pang of guilt again. When are people going to realize that he's not _that_ Park Jimin anymore?

A PD comes up and looks at the three of them. "Good," he says, "This will be very good. Hoseok-ah, why don't you step back and we'll have your two friends in the front? Is that okay, guys?" 

Namjoon nods. "Sure," he says. 

"Yeah," Jimin echoes, even though the thought of being on camera again makes squirm a little inside. 

"Great," the man says. "Don't worry about when we start filming. Just have fun." 

And he disappears back into the crowd. 

Jimin stands still for a moment, unsure of what to do. He doesn't know this song and he doesn't know how to move anymore and he doesn't want to mess this up and embarrass Hoseok. He closes his eyes. The music is so loud. He feels out of place and stupid, no clue what he’s supposed to be doing. Coming out here was a bad idea. It was a really, really bad idea ... 

"Hey," Namjoon says, so close to his ear that he can hear him over the roar of the music and the crowd. "Calm down. You're getting nervous. Just calm down." 

His hand rests on Jimin's waist. 

"Okay," Jimin says. "Sorry. It's been a while and I don't want to look stupid." 

Namjoon laughs, low in his throat. It is a deep and thrilling noise. "You aren't going to look stupid," he says. “Not if I’m out here, anyway." 

Jimin smiles. “You know that’s not true, hyung.” 

Namjoon slides his arms around his waist, pulling him close. "Just relax," he says. "You're good." He is so close that his breath is warm on Jimin's neck. 

Jimin nods, and presses back into Namjoon. 

The lights dim. The music throbs. Jimin starts moving. He turns in Namjoon's arms, so they are face to face. Namjoon's hands slide up his sides, gentle, reassuring. Jimin brings one hand up to Namjoon’s shoulder.

"Later," Namjoon whispers, leaning close, "When the cameras are gone." 

Oh fuck. Right. The cameras. "Yeah," Jimin says. "Later." 

They smile at each other. That weird thing Jimin doesn't understand that lives inside of his heart throbs. He pulls away from Namjoon, and closes his eyes.

He takes a moment to be still, to feel the deep bass, the rhythm, to try to remember what he's supposed to do.

But he never knew what to do at times like this. Improvisation was never his strong suit. Jimin has always relied too strongly on formula. He could spend hours practicing a routine, doing the same moves over and over and over until every motion was crisp and easy. He found joy in that, certainly, but it was the joy of practiced perfection. He's never trusted himself enough to improvise, but he has no real choice now. He looks around, tries to see what everyone else is doing, tries to see what he should be doing ... 

But when he looks closely, nobody looks very good. Not the beautiful girl standing a few feet to their right, who is tall and lovely but is just sort of bobbing in place with no idea what to do with her hands. Not Namjoon, who is shuffling from foot to foot and waving his arms, grinning like an idiot. Not even Hoseok, who is showing off for the camera, moving a little too ostentatiously for it to be anything other than an intentional, preening display. 

Jimin closes his eyes and dances. 

It is slow at first. His body feels rusty and ancient but the song is good and the beat catches him. He remembers, a little, what it was to trust his body. He's never been the best looking or the most talented or the smartest or anything, but when he was dancing, once in a while, on the good days, he felt like he could walk on water. 

He lets himself go. 

He just lets himself go and moves and stops thinking about what he's doing wrong. He closes his eyes and feels the heat of the bodies moving around him and the thrum of the music in the air and he opens his mouth and sings along, wordlessly and joyfully. It's too loud to hear anything, and his own voice mingles with all those other voices. He opens his eyes and someone links arms with him, laughing. He laughs too and they twirl around each other, and there is a moment of perfect movement and noise and bliss before his partner slips into the crowd and is gone. Jimin doesn’t stop. Can’t. He feels loose and free and light, and for the first time in weeks – years – he has moved beyond all fear. He feels fucking invincible.

When the song ends, he is panting and smiling. He isn't in the kind of shape he used to be in, and there is sweat on his forehead. He wipes it away. 

Namjoon is watching him, a funny expression on his face — half pleased, and a little surprised maybe. 

"What?" Jimin asks, frowning.

"Nothing," Namjoon says, but his expression doesn't seem like a /nothing/ expression. 

"What? Namjoon, what?" Jimin is trying for stern, but he smiles. He can't help it. He feels like someone has replaced all of his blood and there is sugar and light flowing through his veins. 

"Nothing," Namjoon says. "Just. I forgot how good you are.” He shakes his head. “You’re something else, Park Jimin. Don’t think I’ve seen you this happy since you got here.” 

Jimin opens his mouth to protest — how could that be true, with all that has gone on between them? How could that be true?

But it is. 

He looks away. 

Namjoon's hand is heavy on his shoulder. "Hey," he says, leaning close again, his other arm around Jimin’s waist. "It's okay." 

Jimin nods, but he is suddenly unable to speak. 

Namjoon turns him around, so they are face to face. He presses his forehead to Jimin's. Jimin thinks for a moment of the cameras – but fuck it. What does it even matter? 

"It's okay," Namjoon says. "I love seeing you happy, Jimin-ah." 

Jimin blinks. His throat is hot. He beams, because he can't help it and he can't deny it. He is happy — so much happier than he's been in so long, and it feels like a miracle. 

Hoseok, standing behind Namjoon's shoulder, clears his throat. 

"I hate to interrupt the moment," he says, "but they're all done. You're free to go, kids." 

Namjoon sighs in relief. "Good," he says. "I need another drink or two before I make an idiot out of myself again." He slides his hand down Jimin's arm and interlaces their fingers, and starts to step through the crowd to the back of the room. 

Jimin doesn't move. He doesn’t want to go back yet to that dark dirty room behind the stage, to the awkward stiff inertia that’s been drowning him. 

Namjoon pauses and looks back at him, questioning.

"I'm gonna stay," Jimin says. "Just for another song or two. Okay?" 

Namjoon nods, that same half-sad smile on his lips, and lets go of Jimin’s hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7! There's a lot happening this time. Although it's not all easy or good, at the heart of this story is the idea that you need to love and forgive yourself in order to love someone else fully. Not the easiest thing to do, but important, I think. The epilogue should be up on Thursday :)

After a warm spell in mid-April, the weather turns unexpectedly cold again. Cloudy skies, quiet days. Hoseok is back in Seoul, although they keep in touch now. Namjoon is busy with school and with work. He is producing an album for a young woman with an incredible voice — Jimin meets her at a party and she is kind and pretty. A star in the making. It’s a big opportunity for Namjoon to get to produce this album. He is anxious about it and he stays at the studio in Manhattan until late, getting home after Jimin is already fast asleep. Sometimes Jimin will shuffle, waking only partially, and Namjoon will kiss him on the forehead. That soft pressure is enough to settle him back down to sleep. 

They still have a very good time together, all the time. Namjoon is good like that — he doesn't wheedle and prod like Seokjin would, or tease like Hoseok or Jungkook would, or take strange and obstinate positions out of sheer pleasure like Taehyung does. He doesn’t call Jimin on his bullshit, like Yoongi would, although there are times when he should do that. Namjoon is quiet and mature and delightful. It's easy to be with him. It’s easy to love him. 

It's just the weather getting him down, Jimin thinks. He just wants a few sunny days, and he'll feel better.

He goes into Manhattan one morning with Namjoon. He wakes up when Namjoon's alarm goes off and he can't get back to sleep, so he dresses in a too-big sweatshirt and follows Namjoon into the city. When they reach the 8th street station Namjoon squeezes his hand and kisses him on the cheek and says he'll text when he's done with class. Jimin is confident now in his ability to ride the subway. He stays on the train until 32nd street. Koreatown makes him nervous. He still worries a little that someone will recognize him and call him out, as irrational as that sounds. 

Nobody recognizes him. 

He makes it through the din of construction and people surrounding Madison Square Garden and over to 10th Avenue. Something is going on at the convention center. Big crowds of people mill around everywhere so he heads south and climbs the steps to the High Line. 

It's a cold morning, and the park is not crowded. Namjoon brought him here early on, when they were still in their tourist phase, because it was one of the things you were supposed to do in New York City. Jimin likes it up here. He likes being lifted out of the city and into a strange nowhere place. It reminds him of Cheonggyecheon, actually, which was always one of his favorite places in Seoul. He likes that feeling of being in-between and behind the scenes. He likes the art, and he likes watching people. 

He walks down towards where the west side opens up, and sits on a bench and watches the boats on the Hudson River. He balls his hands up in his sleeves and hunches in on himself for warmth. There's a cart selling hot chocolate. He stops and buys a cup and sips it slowly. It's sweet and good but he throws the cup away half finished. 

Nothing has felt quite right since Hobi left. Nothing at all. Jimin feels guilty like he's going to be sick but he kind of wishes Hoseok had never come. He feels like some box of memories has opened and everything is flooding out. Now he can't stop thinking about the old days and how good things were. How happy he’d been then, in spite of all the struggle and pain. Because of it. 

It's not ever going to be like that again, he knows, but that knowledge doesn't stop him from missing it. 

He's started watching Taehyung's stupid drama again. He had to download an app and subscribe and everything, because it's still airing and it's such a hot issue, but he did it anyway. He's watched the first six episodes, actually paying attention this time. It's as bad as he suspected it would be, but Taehyung is doing a good job. 

Jimin is not impartial, though. There's something about curling up on the couch in Namjoon's apartment and watching Taehyung's drama that feels strangely like cheating. 

They could watch together, of course. Namjoon knows he’s watching. They’ve talked about it, laughing because, god couldn't Taehyung have at least starred in something not totally ridiculous? But they could watch together. Namjoon would watch, if Jimin asked him to. 

Jimin does not ask. He wants to curl up on the couch and feel that ache of longing and loss in his chest even though he knows know how utterly idiotic he's being. If he is still in love with Taehyung — and he's not sure that he is now or even really ever was — any faint shadow of a chance that his feelings might be reciprocated has long since passed. 

He should be happy with what he has. Dreams are dreams — but he has something good and warm and real right now, and that should be enough. 

It doesn't feel like enough, and that lack makes him feel even more hollow and sad. 

He walks down to the end of the park at 14th street and then down into the West Village. He doesn't like this area much — too new looking, and too expensive, with fancy boutiques and trendy restaurants. There was a time when Jimin enjoyed all of the very expensive designer clothing they got to wear, but no more. 

He meets Namjoon in the park after his classes are done. It's early afternoon, and the sun is a shimmering white globe behind a thin veil of cloud. 

"Hey," Jimin says, smiling when he sees Namjoon. 

It's not like his heart doesn't flutter when Namjoon smiles back at him. It's not like he doesn't love Namjoon too, very much, so much it seems impossible that his heart could ever feel this full. 

"Hey," Namjoon says, beaming. "What's up?" 

Jimin shakes his head. "Nothing. I walked around a lot. It's pretty cold out." 

"Your nose is all red," Namjoon says, with a little bit of that old paternal air he used to adopt. "You should have worn a warmer coat." 

Jimin shrugs. "It's April. It's not supposed to be this cold out." 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, fondly. "Want to get lunch? We can get soup or something. Warm you up." 

They walk down to Chinatown and get big steaming bowls of noodle soup at a hole in the wall place with no tables — just a counter where you eat standing up, elbow to elbow with the other customers. 

The soup is good, and Jimin finds that he's hungry. They slurp up their noodles, not saying much. He feels tired all of a sudden, so tired. It's not late, and he slept well, but he just wants to lie down and be done with everything for a little while. 

When they're done eating Namjoon wants to stop at a store to look at some sneakers that have just been released. Jimin doesn't quite understand Namjoon's obsession with limited edition footwear, but he goes along because he should. There's a line to get into the store — the shoes have just been launched today and are a very hot item. Jimin plays with his phone while they wait in line. He has some unread messages in KakaoTalk, so he opens up the app. It might be his brother, or his mom.

It's like an arrow to the heart when he sees that one of the new messages is from Taehyung — not in the group chat, but a message to him from Taehyung. 

They stopped messaging each other a long, long time ago. Jimin stopped, and after long enough with no response, Taehyung stopped too. 

"What's wrong?" Namjoon asks. 

"Huh?" Jimin looks up. "Oh. Nothing." 

Namjoon frowns. "Doesn't look like nothing." 

Jimin sighs, and tries to push the ache down deep. "Taehyung sent me a message," he says quietly. He turns his phone over in his hand, uneasy.

Namjoon's frown grows deeper. "What happened with you guys, Jimin? Did you fight? Did you tell him …”

“No,” Jimin says. “I never told him any of that. We just ... stopped talking. I enlisted, and he got busy with his career and things changed. You know how that works, hyung." 

He doesn't intend that last to be a slight, but Namjoon winces. 

"Yeah," he says, "I do. I bet he misses you." He takes a deep breath. “I know how you feel about him, but you can still be friends, if you want.

Jimin swallows. "I do miss him,” he says, and he is surprised at how vehement he sounds. 

There is a lump in his throat and his eyes are hot. 

"You should message him back," Namjoon prods, gently. 

Jimin frowns. "I will," he says, and he can't keep his annoyance out of his voice. "I will later, Namjoon." 

He doesn't mean to be sharp with Namjoon, who only is trying to be helpful, but sometimes his helpfulness is suffocating. But there's no way that he would know how much the thought of talking to Taehyung again makes Jimin's chest hurt, makes his stomach churn, makes him feel glad and terrible all at once. 

Namjoon's face falls, but he hides it well. He's always been good at that. "Okay," he says, quiet and serious. “Later, then.” He gets out his own phone. 

They don't talk to each other for the rest of the time they are in line. 

Jimin is even more tired by the time they finally get in the store. It’s too hot. The windows have fogged up. It's crowded and there's nowhere to sit. The technicolor sneakers are wrapped in plastic. Jimin waits while Namjoon waits to try a pair in his size. He feels dizzy. He wants to cry. 

Namjoon buys three pairs of shoes. Jimin stands to the side while he pays, fiddling with his phone. He wants to read Taehyung's message. He never wants to see Taehyung again. He wants to go back in time to the days when he saw Taehyung every day, when he was sick of Taehyung because he saw him so much. He wishes he had the chance now to be sick of Taehyung. 

He can’t believe that even now, after all these years, Taehyung can make his heart ache so badly. Is it ever going to stop? Shouldn’t that be gone now that he’s found something so much better and more real? 

Namjoon laughs at a joke the cashier makes. Jimin presses the yellow icon, and his unread messages pop up. 

Taehyung's is brief. 

_Hoseok hyung said he saw you and you are doing great! Are you talking to us again? When are you coming back to Seoul? I miss you!_

That's it. That's all there is. Jimin knows Taehyung, and he knows these words mean more than that, but still. They are flat glossy pleasantries you might exchange with anyone. 

Jimin feels sad and happy and empty.

"What's wrong?" Namjoon asks. 

Jimin looks up, startled, and shoves his phone in his pocket. 

"Nothing," he says, hastily. 

Namjoon frowns, unconvinced. "Nothing?" 

"Nothing," Jimin says. He takes a deep breath. "Just ....Did you ever think you missed someone, but really you just missed who you were when you used to miss them?" 

Namjoon frowns. "I’m not sure. Maybe?" 

Jimin sighs. He's never been the one with a way with words. "Never mind," he says. "Did you get your shoes?" 

Namjoon nods. "I bought you a pair too." 

Jimin frowns. "Stop doing that," he says. "I don't need you to buy me stuff." 

"But I like buying you stuff, Jiminnie," Namjoon says, making a sad face. He's acting sillier than he normally does, like he can dispelling the uncomfortable silence with a little extra effort. 

JImin sighs more deeply. "I know," he says, "but I feel bad." 

Namjoon shakes his head. “Jimin, I’m … we’re. You know. I love you. I want to buy you things and make you feel special and take care of you.” 

Jimin nods. He understands. He feels the same way about Namjoon, but it’s different somehow when the attention is focused on him. He’s always been a little more ready to give affection than to receive it. Even with Namjoon, there’s some part of Jimin that shies away from the bright glare of his kindness. 

Like he doesn’t deserve it. Like he never will.

“I know, hyung,” Jimin says, tiredly. “Thank you.” 

Namjoon smile and slides a hand around his waist. Jimin closes his eyes and lean his weight into Namjoon just for a moment, and then steps away and through the door and out into the cold evening. 

*****

Something is wrong, but Namjoon does not know what. 

Jimin has been here for a few months now, but it feels much longer. He is out at the store, getting something for dinner. Namjoon protested, saying they could order take-out, but Jimin insisted that he could cook.

Namjoon does not want Jimin to feel like an imposition, but he is not sure what else he can do. 

They are lovers. They sleep in the same bed. Namjoon savors the long afternoons they've spent on the couch. Jimin is sweet and soft and tender. He has always been a physical person, and in that respect at least they fit together so well. It is giddy and wonderful. Namjoon has delighted in learning Jimin’s body, and getting to help Jimin learn what it is to give pleasure and to receive it seems like a precious gift.

But Namjoon feels like a teenager again, too, awkward and lacking the right words at times. As good as things are in the bedroom, as freely as they can talk about what they want and like and are curious about, they never talk about the future. It’s like an opaque curtain has fallen to obscure everything beyond the next sunrise, next sunset. It hasn't been like this with the other people Namjoon has dated. Maybe it's different because it's Jimin, because they knew each other before and all that memory weighs them down, like an anchor. 

Maybe, deep down, Namjoon is still convinced that he's made a terrible mistake, and that even though he loves Jimin, this was not the right thing to do.

They have never talked again about Namjoon’s question. Will Jimin stay? Namjoon gets a weird twisting feeling in his stomach even thinking about it. He wants to know and he can’t ask. He is terrified that he knows Jimin’s answer and it’s not the one he wants. 

He loves Jimin and loves this little cozy life they’ve built and he wants Jimin to stay. It’s as simple as that.

He is a selfish person at heart. He taught himself to be. 

The door creaks open. Jimin comes in with a bag of groceries. He sets the bag down and unwinds the scarf from around his neck. His cheeks are pink, and drops of water hang in his hair like dew. 

"It's gross out," he says, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "It's sleeting or something. The sidewalks are a mess." 

The weather is cold. All the flowers are arrested and the buds are dead. 

"You shouldn't have gone out," Namjoon says. 

Jimin shrugs. "It's not far." He hangs up his coat. "I got stuff for pasta." 

"Thanks," Namjoon says. "I'll cook if you want." 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "That's okay," he says. "I'm hoping to end up with something edible." 

It's become a kind of a joke with them — Namjoon hates to cook, can't cook, could burn a pot of water, would probably break the stove. Really, Namjoon managed just fine on his own, before Jimin came. If he prefers takeout, it is mostly for the convenience. But it's nice to have an inside joke, so he goes along with it. 

Jimin turns on the pot of water to boil and starts cutting up vegetables. "Can you clear some space on the table?" he calls from the kitchen. 

Namjoon frowns. The dining room table is big, but he's been working on a few essays for school and a new song and there are stacks of papers and books and spare pens spread out. He knows which pile corresponds to which project, of course, but this organizational technique does get in the way of eating dinner. 

"Sure," he says, lightly, although he’d rather not move anything. He gets up and clears a space at the end of the table. 

He steps past Jimin into the kitchen. "Hey," he says, reaching into the cabinet for two plates. "I was thinking maybe we should go on a vacation." 

Jimin looks up at him with big eyes. "What?" 

"A vacation," Namjoon says. He's been planning this for a little while now, thinking that maybe if they get away, things will feel good and new again. "A little trip. You need to see more of America than just the city. I was thinking maybe we could rent a house down the shore." 

"Oh," Jimin says. " That sounds really nice." 

He sounds unsure. 

"We don't have to," Namjoon says quickly. "I mean, if you don't want to. We can just stay here and do things if you want. Go to the Bronx Zoo. There’s still a lot you haven’t seen." 

"No," Jimin says quickly. "I'd love to go on a trip with you." He smiles that smile of his that melts Namjoon’s heart. The kitchen is full of the good smell of onion sautéing, and it seems cozy and close suddenly. 

Namjoon feels something inside of him ease up. "Cool," he says. "I found a really nice place. I'll show it to you in a little bit. I know it's not really warm out yet but we can play mini golf and walk on the beach." 

"That sounds great," Jimin says. "Thank you, Namjoon." Easily, as if he doesn’t even think about it, he kisses Namjoon on the cheek. 

Namjoon smiles. This is a good thing, he thinks. This will make things better.

He wishes he just felt more sure. 

 

******

The wet pavement is dark, and the puddles reflect a turbulent and cloudy sky. It is Tuesday, and it rained hard overnight. Namjoon does not have class on Tuesday mornings, so they walked down to Prospect Park, to the botanical garden. Namjoon has been so busy with school. He'd been at the library for hours the previous day, working on a paper. He doesn't talk much about it, but Jimin knows that he works as hard at and takes as much pride in his schoolwork as he ever did with BTS. 

The season has been unusually cold and the gardens are not green. Everything is brown and damp this morning. There is a large and famous collection of cherry trees here but right now only a few brave blossoms grace the branches. 

"I don't think she expected me to read the entire book," Namjoon says, quietly. His hands are in his pockets, and he is wearing a stocking cap pull down low. "But I think I should have, anyway. It would have better informed my opinion on the transformation that the dialectic underwent in the postwar years." 

Jimin wonders, sometimes, if Namjoon thinks he's really smart enough to understand all this stuff. Jimin barely finished high school, and he has no knowledge of the dense and strange philosophical terms that Namjoon uses so fluently. Still, if it helps Namjoon to talk this stuff out, Jimin is glad to listen. 

"I'm sure you did fine," he says. "You can always read the book later, on your own time." 

Namjoon nods. "You're right," he says. He sounds grateful for the affirmation. “Thanks, Jimin.” 

There is an awkward pause, and then Namjoon asks, "Where were you last night?" 

Jimin closes his eyes. His cheeks go quickly hot in the damp cold air. He knew this was coming, but that doesn't prevent the shock of anger that runs through him. 

"I went out," he says quietly.

Namjoon laughs softly. "I know that," he says, "since you weren't home when I got back. Where'd you go?" 

Jimin swallows. His sinuses feel congested. He doesn't normally suffer from allergies but the trees are different here. The air is different. "I went back to that club," he says softly. 

"The place we went with Hoseok?" Namjoon sounds amused. "You went all the way there by yourself?" 

"I wanted to go dancing again," Jimin mumbles. He feels guilty, and he doesn't even know why. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I should have ..." 

"Jimin," Namjoon says, "It's okay. I'm glad you went out, but I do wish you'd left a note or texted or something." 

Jimin nods. "Sorry," he says. 

They walk down a path between a colonnade of large, stately trees. Their damp bark is dark grey and their bare branches reach for each other overhead. A few squirrels dart back and forth in the sparse grass. A woman pushing a stroller passes them going the other way, walking fast. 

"Did you have a good time?" Namjoon asks. 

It takes Jimin a moment to realize what he's asking about. It's not even as simple as a good time, though. 

Since the night at the club with Hoseok, Jimin has not been able to stop thinking about it. He felt so good and alive and strong and happy. He hadn't even realized he was capable of feeling such pure, clean emotion. He spent long hours while Namjoon was at school watching old videos on YouTube, trying to remember what it had felt like to be that person, in that whole, unbroken body, dancing those routines. He remembers the days and nights practicing, remembers the stages and concerts and even, surprisingly, most of the choreography. He doesn’t remember the feeling though. That’s all blank. All gone. Blotted out by the pain and sadness.

He had wondered – feared, really – that it was his memory that was flawed, and alcohol and nerves had made that night at the club with Hoseok into something much bigger than it should have been. So, he’d gone back. 

He had almost not been brave enough to go by himself. He's never been at his best on his own, but he'd had to know. 

He had dressed in his best jeans and a nice shirt and put on a little makeup and gotten a car. He'd been so nervous, sitting alone on the back seat, turning his phone over and over in his hands. He'd almost asked the driver to turn around, drop him off, let him out. 

But he hadn't. 

He'd waited in the long line by himself. As he'd gotten closer to the door, he'd worried that maybe, without Namjoon, without Hoseok, they wouldn't let him in. 

They did. He paid the cover, and got a wrist band. 

Walking through those doors into the crowded, noisy club, Jimin had been more scared than he could ever remember being: more scared than when he auditioned, more scared than their debut stage, more scared than when they performed in America for the first time, more scared than when Namjoon kissed him for the first time. All those other times, he'd had someone else to rely on, someone else to pick up his slack. This time, although the stakes were very low, there was no one else. 

He got a drink, and stood near the wall sipping it slowly. The music was good. He closed his eyes. The condensation from the cup ran down his arm, and he swayed ever so slightly in place, in time with the beat. He took a deep breath and let it out.

It was awkward at first, in the dark, crowded throng, but in a way being alone made it easier. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared, and although for a long time Jimin had been terrified of being alone and forgotten in the club it had felt like a blessing instead, like a cloak of anonymity soothingly covering him so that he could just _stop caring_ for a little while.

He danced until sweat ran down his neck, his back, until he was thirsty and giddy with it. His memory had not been mistaken: it felt so _good_. Everything after that is shattered and splintered. He remembers his fingers intertwined with someone else's. He remembers his hands on someone's waist. It hadn't felt intimate. It hadn't even been sexual. It had just been the joy and pleasure of being close and moving without thinking, even knowing that he would never know these people, that he would never see any of them again. 

Sometime after two, a little more drunk and very happy and flush all over, he'd stumbled back out into the cool night. Miraculously, he'd gotten a cab, and given Namjoon's address, and he'd leaned back in the back seat and closed his eyes and felt something strange and good and strong and peaceful run through his body. It had been wonderful, wonderful. 

Namjoon was asleep when Jimin got home. Quietly, he had taken off his sweat-soaked clothing. Quietly, he had gotten in the shower and stood under the cold spray and tried to make sense of the strange turbulence in his heart. 

He had gone to sleep on the couch so as not to wake Namjoon, who was so tired and worked so hard. 

Now, in the grey morning in the garden, all of that seems even more alien than it did even last night. Like it had been someone else who’d gone and danced and felt so alive, not Park Jimin. Like he’d just been an observer, silent and impartial.

"It was great," Jimin says quietly. "I really missed dancing." 

That barely sums up half of it, but it seems like enough for Namjoon. He smiles, but doesn't say anything else. 

They turn a corner and stand at the head of a set of stairs that lead down into a plaza with several pools. Magnolias grow beside the paving, thick branches arching up. Their thick-petaled white and blush blossoms hover like clouds, startling against the rain-dark branches, against the glistening slate pavement. 

It is overwhelming. 

Jimin closes his eyes. 

He remembers beauty like this, but it has been a long time since he's felt it. It's been a long time since he's felt anything but the grey drag of his own inadequacy, and the horror of his mistakes. These last two months have been like rising up slowly through a great depth of water. A few sun beams had penetrated into the mirk, and more and more as he’d kept rising, and now he is in the clear and glittering shallows and the whole world is different and new. He is different.

"Hey," Namjoon says. "You okay?" 

Jimin nods. He squeezes his eyes shut, and hugs Namjoon, arms tight around Namjoon’s waist, face pressed to his shoulder. Namjoon stiffens but then relaxes and puts a hand on Jimin's back. 

"You're okay," he says, soothing, soft, always kind.

"Thank you," Jimin says, although he doesn't know what he's thanking Namjoon for.

"Hey," Namjoon says. "Any time." 

Jimin pulls away but takes hold of Namjoon's hand. They go down the steps, through the profusion of white flowers, sinking. Jimin's chest hurts, and there is something rattling around in his head that he can't quite give voice to. Not yet. Not right now, anyway, in the argent morning with Namjoon right beside him. 

He'll get there, slowly. Somehow, he’ll find the strength.

They step out of the cool damp into the conservatory. In the steamy heat, it is too hot to hold hands. They look at the orchids and the palms and then go down some stairs and through a passage to another room to look at some cactuses. A class trip comes in, and the kids are excited and chattering. 

Without saying anything, Namjoon and Jimin head back upstairs, and then out into the open again. Jimin wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. 

"You hungry?" Namjoon asks. 

They hadn't eaten breakfast, and Jimin is a little hungover, maybe, or maybe just dehydrated from dancing. 

"Yeah," he says. 

They leave the garden and head back out into the city to find a place to eat. 

*****

The morning is grey and Jimin does not feel ready. 

They are leaving for the shore. Jimin has packed and repacked his bag, but his problems will not be solved by bringing an extra pair of shorts or a spare set of sunglasses. 

Namjoon is packing now. He is sitting on the floor in the bedroom throwing things into his bag haphazardly. Jimin's fingers itch to go in and fold his clothes. Some things do not change. Bag bulging, Namjoon appears at the door. 

"Ready?"

Jimin nods. "Yeah," he says. 

In the cab, Jimin rolls down the windows. The warm, damp air isn't exactly refreshing, but it wakes him up a little bit. Namjoon smiles and says nothing and rests his hand on Jimin's shoulder, casual and reassuring. 

Jimin does not feel reassured.

The cab lets them out at Penn Station. Jimin follows Namjoon down the stairs into the dim and filthy underbelly. Jimin stands aside and waits while Namjoon purchase their tickets from a machine. Quietly, he follows Namjoon to the platform. 

He feels like a ghost living his own life. 

The train is crowded but they manage to find two seats together. Namjoon lets Jimin take the window. 

"Are you excited?" Namjoon asks. His smile falters, just slightly. "You’ve always loved the ocean." 

"Yeah," Jimin says, smiling with some effort. "Thank you hyung. You didn't have to do all of this." 

"It's a vacation for me too, you know," Namjoon says. “I haven’t taken a vacation in so long. I can’t even remember the last time.” 

Jimin shakes his head “You need to take better care of yourself. Were you just going to go on eating instant ramen and falling asleep at your computer and sleeping on an air mattress forever if I hadn’t come?” 

Namjoon laughs. “It wasn’t a bad life,” he says. 

When the train pulls out of the station they realize they are sitting the wrong way: instead of facing forward, they look back at where they’ve come from 

It is a long ride, and the scenery is not beautiful. New Jersey is an ugly state. 

Namjoon laughs when Jimin says that. 

"What?" Jimin says. "It's all ..." He waves his hand at the expanse of smokestacks and dull fetid marsh outside the windows. 

"It's not all like this," Namjoon says. "It's nice where we're going. I went once with some friends of mine." 

"Okay," Jimin says. He's not totally convinced. Outside, they pass a paint factory and some empty and decrepit buildings covered in graffiti. 

"Trust me," Namjoon says. "You'll like it." 

The rhythm of the train lulls Jimin to sleep. He rests his head on Namjoon's shoulder. Namjoon, reading a book for school, relaxes into his touch. He lets his head rest against Jimin’s for a second.

When Jimin wakes up, Namjoon is sleeping too. His face is peaceful and still, and for a moment Jimin remembers how young he is: barely thirteen months older than Jimin. He'll only be twenty eight this year. Jimin remembers when twenty eight seemed ancient, but now it seems strange that they've already lived so much life when there is still so, so much longer to go. 

The train lets them off at a small station with lots of cars in the parking lot. There are people, Namjoon says, who commute into New York City from this place every day. Jimin cannot imagine that kind of drudgery.

True to Namjoon's word, the town where they've rented a house is not set in the middle of a low and dirty marsh. Instead, it is a collection of neat cottages huddled along the shore. They are painted sherbet colors and have flowers pots on the front porches. There are a few restaurants and shops on the main street but it is still early in the season, really too early to come to the beach, and things are quiet. 

"I couldn't afford this place after Memorial Day," Namjoon says, looking his bag for the keys to their place. The owner had mailed them the week before. It is a tiny bungalow a block and a half from the beach. Inside, the furniture is nice but well-used. There is some hokey nautical decor — the kind of thing Jimin’s mother would like. It looks comfortable though. He likes it. 

"It's cute," he says. "This is great. Thank you." He kisses Namjoon on the cheek, and then feels embarrassed. He never knows when he’s supposed to be affectionate. 

Namjoon beams, and Jimin feels a little better. 

They are only staying for a few days. There's no real point in unpacking. They drop their bags in the pocket sized bedroom and walk to the grocery store. Here, at least, Jimin can take the lead. If it were up to Namjoon they would just eat out all weekend, but Jimin gets yogurt and cereal, fruit and milk. Simple things for breakfast. They get some snacks and bottled water. Namjoon picks up a six pack of beer. 

By the time they walk back to the house and put the food away, it is late. They are both hungry but do not feel like cooking, so they walk up to the beach. This is not like home at all. It is shabby and small compared to the impressive sweep of the Busan skyline, but there is something charming about the joggers and families walking up and down the boardwalk.

The noise of the surf though — that is the same. That stops Jimin in his tracks. He leans against the worn wooden fence and closes his eyes and listens to the rush and retreat of the waves, and if he did not know better he could be fifteen again and back home in Busan, listening to the surf there in the evening and dreaming about the day he could finally get away, finally move forward and towards all his fraught and beautiful dreams. 

Now the urge to go home sweeps him. The ocean sounds the same, but it's not. He's not. Nothing is the same and he would give anything to recover that feeling of being fifteen and still believing that there was so much promise in the world. 

But there is no going back to that magic. Not ever. 

They get tacos at a place a few blocks down the boardwalk. Namjoon orders at the counter — fish tacos and garlic shrimp tacos for them to share. They sit in a tiny booth with their knees brushing. 

"This is nice," Jimin says. "I like it here." 

"Good," Namjoon says. "Me too." He smiles. 

They are quiet for a moment and then Jimin asks, "So how many more weeks of school do you have after this?" 

"A month, I think," Namjoon says. "Almost done." 

"Have you told your mom you're not coming home yet?" Jimin knows Namjoon has decided, but he doesn't know if he's actually said anything. 

Namjoon shakes his head. "Not yet," he says. 

Jimin says nothing. He hasn't called his mom in a week. 

"Have you picked your classes for next semester yet?" Jimin asks. "How much longer do you have?" 

"Not yet," Namjoon says. "Registration is next week. I've got some picked out, but I need to meet with my advisor. I could be done after the fall, but ..." 

"But what?" Jimin smiles. "That's amazing, hyung." 

Namjoon's smile is a little bit wry. "I guess," he says. “I’m not sure I’m ready though.” 

"Cut it out," Jimin says, grinning. "It's amazing. You're going to be a college graduate. Are you going to wear a cap and gown? You better. I need pictures." 

Namjoon smiles. "We'll see," he say. “I was thinking of skipping the ceremony.”

"Your mom is going to make you go," Jimin says. "There's no way you're going to escape the graduation photos." 

Namjoon laughs because he knows Jimin is right. 

The waiter comes with their tacos and an order of chips and salsa. For a few moments they are busy unwrapping plastic silverware and taking hungry first bites. 

"Good," Jimin says.

"Yeah," Namjoon says, mouth full. 

Jimin takes another bite, glad not to have to come up with anything else to stay. They finish their meal in a quiet, comfortable silence.

They take a circuitous route back to the house. It's cooler here than it was in the city, and Jimin tucks his hands inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Namjoon notices, and puts an arm around his shoulder, pressing close. It's so nice to be able to walk like this here, without worrying that anyone is going to say anything. They've held hands in public, they've walked arm in arm, they've even kissed, and nobody has said anything. Jimin knows he can't have that if he goes home. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the warm feeling of Namjoon at his side.

By the time they get back, Jimin is tired. He washes his face and stares at himself in the spotted mirror. Still pale, but at least his hair is growing out. Namjoon is working when he comes out of the bathroom. The blue light of the computer screen casts strange shadows on his face. He looks up when he seems Jimin and he smiles, but he looks so tired too. Why is life so hard and so exhausting? It shouldn’t be. Jimin sits down beside him on the couch. 

"You should go to bed," Namjoon says. 

"You too,” Jimin says. Before Namjoon’s inevitable protest, he adds, “I know you’re working. I’ll just stay out here until you’re done.” 

"You're not going to be comfortable," Namjoon says, skeptically. 

"I'll be fine," Jimin says. "Finish your work.”

"Go to bed," Namjoon says, again, laughing. "You're falling asleep." 

"No," Jimin says, snuggling closer to Namjoon. He rests his head on Namjoon's thigh, and closes his eyes. "I'm okay. Wake me up when you're done." 

Much later, he opens his eyes slowly, and they are still on the couch. Namjoon's laptop is shut and sitting on the coffee table. The lights are on and it is dark outside. Namjoon's fingers are resting on Jimin's temple, stroking softly. 

"Hey," Jimin says, sleepily. "Wha' time is it?" 

"Little after midnight," Namjoon says. His voice is rough. "Not too late." 

Jimin nods. His arm is asleep and the rough fabric of Namjoon's jeans is pressed into his cheek, but he doesn't want to get up. 

"Hey Jimin," Namjoon says. 

"Yeah?" Jimin 

"Stay here. For good, I mean," Namjoon says. His brows are knit. "Don’t go back to Seoul. I want you to stay, Jimin. I love you.” 

The window is open and a breeze carries in the salt smell and the distant noise of the surf.

"I can't stay," Jimin says, after a long time. 

"Why not?" Namjoon's fingers are still carding softly through his hair. 

"I'm on a tourist visa," Jimin says, lightly. The easy excuse. He sits up, blinking. His head feels heavy and muzzy with sleep. "I can't just _stay_ , Namjoon." 

Namjoon shakes his head. "We could figure it out," he says. "I could get you a job or something. You could get a work visa." 

"Namjoon," Jimin says quietly. "I don't want you to get me a job." 

"Why not?" Namjoon says. He exhales. "Jimin, what do you want?" 

Jimin closes his eyes again, leans back against the couch cushions. 

There it is — that familiar pressure. He could let Namjoon find him some job and he could apply for a visa and he could let his life flow smoothly along in this new channel that has opened for it. 

It wouldn't be bad. He loves Namjoon. He really, really loves Namjoon, so much it makes him feel like his heart is going to overflow.

But he doesn't _want_ to, is the thing. Fuck if he even knows what it is to want any more. He knows though that he doesn't want to stay here and slot himself quietly and neatly into Namjoon's life. Fuck. He wishes he did, so much.

"I don't know," he says, again.

He has spent so long doing what he ought to be doing, or what the company wants him to do, or what Namjoon thinks he should do, or what he thinks the fans want him to do that he doesn't even know what it is to want. Outside of the weight of expectation, what is there? 

"I want to help you," Namjoon says in his smooth deep voice. "If you don't want to stay, what do you want? I can help you ..." He pauses. "Jimin, I love you. I want to help you be happy." 

Jimin’s chest is all tight and his cheeks are hot and he feels like an idiot. He doesn't understand what's wrong with him. "I love you too, Namjoon. So fucking much," he says. His voice is choked, and he can feel his eyes sting. "But I don't want your help. I’m not happy, but I’m getting better. I'm okay. I'll be okay." 

Namjoon shakes his head. "Jimin," he says, and he sounds crushed. "I don't ... I just want things to be good for you. I can help you ..." 

Jimin exhales. "I just want to do it on my own," he says. "Don't you fucking get that? I don't want to be the one you rescue, Namjoon." 

Namjoon's face is expressionless, and then it cracks and he looks as sad as Jimin has ever seen him. "I'm not trying to ..." He clears his throat. "Jimin, I'm just trying to help." He speaks slowly, calmly, but his words are a lance. "I didn't make you come here. _Everyone_ was worried about you. It wasn't just me. Yoongi and Seokjin ... They asked me to reach out to you. You were ignoring _everyone's_ calls." 

"So?" Jimin says. "So what? I didn't want to talk to them. What was I supposed to say? How's everything, hyungs? How's the success and fame suiting you? Fuck. Every day for two fucking years I sat in a guard booth and opened a fucking gate, because I wasn't good enough for anything else. And I had to listen to that stupid fucking song of Jungkook's on the radio the whole time. Song of the year. God. What did I even have to tell them?" 

"It's not a competition," Namjoon says, and there is heat in his voice now. "It's not about who's most successful or best or whatever. They're your friends. They were concerned about you." 

"I know," Jimin says. "But you can still pity your friends. I didn’t want their pity."

"Jimin," Namjoon says, and he sounds so sad. "That's not true. They didn’t ..." 

"It is true," Jimin says. "And you know what? It's okay, hyung. I just failed. That's it. You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen." 

Namjoon frowns. "You didn't fail," he says, and he sounds miserable. Oh, it breaks Jimin's heart to be the one to make Namjoon sound so hopeless. "It wasn’t your fault. I can help ..." 

Jimin shakes his head. "No," he says, and he's surprised at how angry he sounds. "You can't help, Namjoon. For once you're just going to have to accept that you can't fix this for me. It's my fucking life, and I'm the one who has to decide whether to try and fix it or give up and go back to making fucking coffee. But it's on me." 

Namjoon stares at him, and there is so much sadness in his voice and his eyes that Jimin can’t stand it. "I don't understand... Jimin, I love you." 

"I don't either," Jimin says. “But I love you too.” He closes his eyes. "Listen, I'm going for a walk. I just ... I just ... I need to be alone for a little while." 

He pulls on his sweatshirt and grabs his wallet and phone. Namjoon says nothing, just watches him with a cold, harrowed expression.

Outside, it is cool and there is a breeze off the ocean. Jimin walks the block and a half to the beach, past the silent, sleeping houses. The beach is empty, and the sand is bright under the moonlight. He leaves his shoes on the boardwalk and walks down towards the water. He feels all messed up and confused. He's a thousand miles from where he started but when he closes his eyes and listens to the pounding of the surf on the beach, he could be back in Busan all those weeks ago, as if nothing had ever changed at all. 

Coming here had seemed like a good escape, like the easy way to find something that didn’t just feel dark and dull and terrible. In mourning for his old life, he’d wanted to run as far away as possible, and he’s come halfway around the world. He stands at the very edge of the shore. The cold waves come up and lap at his ankles. The only thing he’s sure he wants is to go back before any of this happened and do it all over, and he can't have that. 

He could stay, is the thing. He could stay and be Namjoon's boyfriend and try to fashion some kind of life out of the scraps Namjoon throws him. It's not Namjoon's fault, of course, but this is all Namjoon's dream. Jimin never wanted to live in New York City. He doesn't want to be a college student. He wants to be near his parents and his brother. He wants to go to his brother's wedding. He wants to sing and dance again, even if he doesn't know if he can any more. He wants all that and he wants Namjoon _too_. Amorphous and long buried though they are, those are _his dreams_. Namjoon was strong enough to give everything up, to come here and never look back, but Jimin can’t do that. He’s too weak. He misses too much and too strongly.

It's okay, he thinks, that Taehyung is an actor now. It's okay that he's famous, and that he has other friends and another life that Jimin is not a part of. It's okay that they are all doing different things, all alone and apart. It hurts. God, it hurts. He still wants to be that kid who loves all his bandmates so much, who thought that maybe, maybe they would defy all the odds and be together forever. He'd been so naive then. But that's not realistic. That's not life. People change. He's changed. Even if Bangtan were to come back as one group, it would never be the same as it was. That doesn’t mean it has to be nothing. They were his brothers. They still are.

Even if Jimin never accomplishes much of anything, it's okay. He has to try though. He can give it one more go, and one more after that, and keep trying until the day when his dreams change. 

He thinks he is strong enough to try once more, at least. Just one more time. He owes himself that.

Namjoon is asleep on the bed in the tiny bedroom when Jimin gets back. His phone says it's only quarter to one. It seems later. He has not been gone long. 

The television is on but muted. Blue light and shadows dance across the walls, across the ugly floral bedspread, across Namjoon's smooth, sleeping face. 

Jimin closes his eyes. His throat is tight and aching now, even though he'd been so resolute just a moment ago. 

God. He loves Namjoon. He does, and he could choose this. 

He could choose to stay. 

It would be as simple as that. He could choose Namjoon and this life and all the rest of the details would fall into place, somehow. He'd even be happy, he thinks. Happy enough, anyway. He likes it here. He likes the anonymity and he likes the city and he loves Namjoon. 

Shouldn't that be enough? Why isn't that enough? 

Fuck. 

He is clenching his hands so hard that his nails are digging into his skin painfully. 

He forces himself to loosen the grip.

He's made up his mind, but this is still agony. He gets up and then sits down. He's always been a restless person. He's always liked motion. The walk helped, but now he feels trapped again. He wishes he was seventeen again and he could go to the practice room and bury all of his hurt and fear and anger in hours of dance. He used to think that maybe he'd become the best dancer in the world, if he practiced enough and hurt enough. 

In the end, the practice did not pay off, and there was always more hurt, new hurt, so that it was like bailing a sinking ship. The water kept rising higher and higher. 

On the bed, Namjoon makes an unquiet noise and rolls halfway over. 

God. Namjoon. That is the very worst part. How can Jimin do this to him? That's the part that is digging deep into his chest and twisting around in there, tearing through all the soft and tender feeling. 

Namjoon has been nothing but good and kind and patient. Jimin is an idiot. He must be. There is never going to be anyone else who will care for Jimin like Namjoon does. How can he just walk away from someone who loves him so much? Who he loves so much? 

The flaw is in his own heart. He wishes so badly it weren't but he knows when he closes his eyes and thinks about Namjoon he feels love, bright and pure and good. 

It’s just not enough.

He wishes more than anything in the entire world it was enough. He wishes he wanted it more, so that he would decide to stay here and be happy.

It’s just not, and he doesn’t know why.

He sits in the chair in the corner with the wobbly leg and squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes he had anyone — anyone — to talk this over with. He wishes he had Yoongi, or Seokjin, or Jungkook, or Hoseok, or Taehyung. 

God, he wishes he could have ten minutes with Taehyung. 

He picks up his phone and opens KakaoTalk. He has dozens of unread messages — hundreds in the group chat alone. Nobody removed him. He's not sure why they didn't, after he spent two years fucking ignoring them.

They are better people than he is. Every single one of them is better. 

He opens up his chat with Taehyung. That message he never replied to is sitting there at the top. 

Without reading the old messages, he types, _Hey. I really miss you, Taehyung-ah._. 

It's midday in Korea, and Taehyung is probably busy at work. Jimin does not expect the reply to come so soon. 

_Miss you too Jimin-ah! You need to come visit me. We’ll go out and have a great time, just like the old days!_

_That would be great. I’ll be home soon._ Jimin presses send and closes his eyes. 

*****

Namjoon wakes with a sore head and a sore heart. It is early and pale light shines on the white walls. The television is off. Outside, a seabird calls. The scent of the ocean is in the air. 

He sits up and pushes his hair out of his face. He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand. 

Jimin is asleep in the chair in the corner. His phone is in his hand, and his neck is bent at what looks like a very uncomfortable angle. 

Jimin. God. Namjoon feels like such an idiot. He exhales. 

He gets up and goes to the bathroom and washes his face with cold water. It wakes him up a little bit but he feels hollow and shaky inside. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

He sits on the front porch with his elbows on his knees. It's a quiet bright morning. It is going to be a beautiful day. 

He has been sitting on the porch for a while when the door opens and Jimin comes out. He looks sleepy and pale. 

"Hey," he says. 

"Good morning," Namjoon says. "I'm hungry. Want to go get breakfast?" 

Jimin's eyes widen, and he nods. "Sure," he says. "Let me put on my shoes." 

They go to a little diner a few blocks down. An older woman takes their order and pours them cups of strong burnt coffee. Jimin is not saying much. Namjoon is not eager to break the fragile peace this cocoon of silence has won them. 

Their food comes. It’s fine: standard greasy diner fare. Namjoon realizes he's not hungry. He pushes pieces of egg around his plate. Jimin got a waffle with strawberries and whipped cream. It looks much better than Namjoon's eggs. 

"Want some?" Jimin asks, looking up, eyes bright. There is a little whipped cream on his cheek. Namjoon reaches over and wipes it off. 

"Thanks," Namjoon says. 

They finish the waffle. Jimin offers to pay the bill, and Namjoon lets him. 

Afterwards, they walk up to the beach. There are a few people sunbathing, and a few people fishing further down, and a woman playing fetch with a large dog. They walk down towards the jetty. Namjoon didn't grow up near the ocean, but he likes it. He like the fresh smell and the brightness of so much sky and water and the steady reassuring churn of it. 

There is a line of debris on the sand, left there by the high tide last night. Namjoon keeps his head down and keeps his eyes open for things of interest: he finds a scallop shell with a glossy, iridescent interior, and a spiral shell, and a little piece of driftwood that looks kind of like a bird. 

"Hyung, look," Jimin says, holding something up. It is green and bright in the sunlight. "Sea glass." 

He drops the sea glass into Namjoon's hand. It is a smooth, irregular green gem. It's beautiful. 

"You keep it," he says to Jimin. 

Jimin shakes his head. "It's fine," he says. "It's for you." 

Namjoon smiles. "Thanks, Jimin-ah." 

They walk further down and come to a place where the bay opens out into the ocean through a wide inlet spanned by a bridge. White boats move smoothly through the water. A pelican sits on top of a buoy. Namjoon sits down on the sand, and Jimin sits down beside him. 

"Hey," Jimin says. His knees are drawn into his chest, and he is looking out at the wide, dark blue ocean. He looks beautiful right now, rare and fine. "Namjoon, I love you." 

"I love you too," Namjoon says, and he thinks it's true. He loves Jimin's smile, and his grave, beautiful heart. 

"You know why I can’t stay, right?” Jimin says, quietly. "I can't ... If I don't go back, I'll never forgive myself." 

Namjoon nods. He understands. It hurts, but he understands. It is just one more thing he admires about Jimin. 

“You can’t stay here forever either," Jimin says quietly. 

Namjoon frowns, but Jimin keeps talking. 

"I mean, you can. You've already proven a million times over that you can do anything you put your mind to. I would never have been brave enough to come here on my own." He is quiet for a moment. "But you have to go back and see your mom, and you have to go to your sister's graduation. We can't just ... even if you ignore it, Namjoon, it doesn't go away." 

Namjoon nods. He knows that. God, he knows. He has worked so hard to forge himself anew. He has tried to move on and leave all the messy tangled past behind, and still it has ensnared him. Maybe forgetting was never really what he wanted, anyway. 

Jimin is here, after all, at Namjoon’s invitation. 

Namjoon nods. He picks up a little broken bit of shell, rubs his thumb against the rough ridged surface. He closes his eyes. "After everything that happened, how can I go back, Jimin?”

Jimin shrugs. “You just have to go,” he says. “I mean, you don’t have to. You can do anything you want. But if you miss it enough, you just have to go back and try again.”

Namjoon nods. He knows that. He’s always known that. He’s the one that is not brave. He’s the one who has put all this distance between him and all the people he might have hurt, because of guilt, because of fear.

Jimin reaches and takes his hand. His palm is soft and warm. "I wish it hadn't ended," he says, softly. "More than anything in the world. Sometimes there's nothing I want in the whole world so much as to just go back five years. That was such a great year, right?" 

Namjoon remembers how it had been: a smooth seamless feeling of everything falling into place with little resistance. For a while, it seemed like they might accomplish anything together. 

Jimin sighs. "It wouldn't have stayed the same," he says. "I mean, something would have changed, right? Even if nothing else, Seokjin hyung would still have to enlist soon. Things would be different." 

Namjoon closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I just wish we could have seen how it all played out." 

"We did," Jimin says. He squeezes Namjoon's finger tight. "It's not what I imagined, but I think it's okay, Namjoon." He gets slowly to his feet and brushes the sand off his pants. "It's not over. I still love you. Even if I go back ..." 

Namjoon closes his eyes and nods. He knows Jimin is right. God, he learned that lesson years ago. He is an expert at starting over. Going back, though ... that's the challenge. 

Jimin is pulling off his sweatshirt. It musses up his hair, which has gotten long and hangs in his face. It's startling to realize how much it's grown since he got here, but then fit also seems like he's been here forever. 

Namjoon frowns when Jimin pulls off his tee shirt too. His body is pale and spare. The scar on his back is barely visible. 

"What are you doing?" Namjoon stands up too. 

Jimin shrugs. "Going swimming." 

Namjoon laughs. "Are you serious? It's cold, Jimin." 

"It's not too bad," Jimin says. "The sun is warm." He lifts his head towards the sun, beaming. "Come with me. We'll just run in and go under and come right back out." 

Namjoon shakes his head. "You're gonna get sick." 

Jimin rolls his eyes. "We'll be fine," he says. "Come on." 

He undoes the button on his jeans and steps out of them. In just black boxer briefs, his legs are long and graceful. 

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Come on, Namjoon," he says. "Let's do it." 

Namjoon shakes his head, but he takes off his jacket. "This is crazy," he says, pulling off his tee shirt. He is thinner now than he used to be, and it's a little embarrassing to compare himself to Jimin, who still has his fit dancer's build. Namjoon takes off his hat, and folds up his pants, and stands there on the beach in his underwear, feeling more awkward than he almost ever has, although the beach is empty and only Jimin is near. 

"Come on," Jimin says, and he grabs Namjoon's hand, linking their fingers again. He runs towards the water, and Namjoon does too. Sand flies in their wake. The sky is bright blue. A wave breaks and reaches for them, but they aren't there yet. 

Yelling something unintelligible, Jimin lets go of Namjoon's hand and runs splashing into the water. His eyes scrunch up and his voice is high and loud. "Cold. Cold. Cold cold cold cold!" He is smiling though, and when the next wave comes, he plunges under. 

The water is icy around Namjoon's ankles. He can't feel his feet. He hesitates. It seems like Jimin is under for too long. The surf churns. The waves are bigger up close than they seemed from far away. 

But then Jimin emerges in spray of water, gasping, soaked and grinning. He pushes his hair out of his face. 

"Come on!" he calls. "Hurry up and get in here!" 

Namjoon smiles. "Seriously?" 

"I'm not getting out until you come in," Jimin says. "You don't want me to get hypothermia, do you? That really will be your fault, Namjoon!" 

Oh, that is a low blow, but the whole situation is so ridiculous Namjoon can't even be angry. He takes a deep breath and clenches his teeth and runs forward through the shallow water. The water is so cold it stings. Needles and pins in his toes. A wave comes and soaks him to the waist. Jimin is grinning, hands on his hips, water dripping down his chest and stomach. 

"You have to go under," he says. "That's the rule, hyung." 

A wave is coming. Namjoon grimaces. "You're evil, Jimin-ah," he says. 

"But you love me," Jimin says, still smiling.

And it's true. 

Namjoon takes a deep breath and goes under. 

*****

They can’t stay in very long. Spluttering, shaking, they emerge from the water to stand where the waves break. Namjoon’s lips are purple, and Jimin feels bad. His must be turning blue, too. He’s so cold he can’t feel his feet. 

They dress without waiting to dry off. Jimin’s clothing feels rough and uncomfortable against his damp skin. Namjoon shakes his head like a large, charming dog to get some of the water out of his hair. 

They walk back to the house not saying much. It is noon, and the day is warmer, and Jimin closes his eyes and soaks in the fierce hot sunlight. Namjoon lets him take the first shower. It feels good to wash the salt water from his hair and from his skin. The hot water is life-giving. He stands under the shower spray and lets the water thaw him. 

Namjoon is on his laptop when Jimin walks into the living room, toweling his hair dry. 

"Your turn," Jimin says. 

Namjoon looks up, and smiles, and it is such a soft, sweet, fond smile that Jimin's heart breaks a little. Maybe it will keep breaking over and over again, until he goes. 

"Thanks," Namjoon says, and he shuts his laptop. 

While Namjoon showers, Jimin opens one of beers in the fridge and sits on the bed. The beer is dark and bitter. It's not the kind of thing he normally prefers, but he likes the bitterness right now. He takes a sip and sets the bottle on the night stand. 

His feet are still white and wrinkled, and his skin feels a little too tight. He feels heavy and light all at once. Heavy with sorrow, but so much lighter now than he has made up his mind. 

He is going to go home and he is going to try again. 

He doesn't know what that means yet, but he takes it at face value, like a mantra. For himself — for the naive fifteen year old he was and the tired twenty six year old he is and whoever he becomes in the future — he will try again to honor the dreams he worked so long and hard for. 

The sunlight is warm through the window and feels so good. He closes his eyes. 

They are still closed when he hears Namjoon come in. Jimin blinks lazily. Namjoon has only a towel around his waist. His slim, pale back curves elegantly. Namjoon crouches down to rifle through his bag. He stands. The towel drops.

He has a cute butt, Jimin thinks, and then is a little shocked at himself for thinking it. 

It is easier to admire Namjoon now, somehow. 

Wearing only boxer briefs, Namjoon sits down on the bed next to Jimin. One bony ankle crosses over the other. 

"Hey," he says. 

Jimin swallows. "Hey," he says. "Do you feel better?"

Namjoon nods. 

Jimin reaches for his bottle of beer, and takes another slip. 

"Kinda tired," Namjoon says. His hands are folded on his belly, and his eyes are closed, and he's smiling. 

It's that smile that keeps breaking Jimin's heart. 

"Hey," Jimin says, quietly. "Namjoon. I love you. Really. I mean it." 

Namjoon opens one eye. "I know," he says quietly. 

Jimin takes a deep breath. "I know we never even talked about what this is, but even if I go back, I don't want to leave you. I want to ..." 

Namjoon opens both eyes. "You want to want? Still be together?" His tone is not curt, but there is something defensive about it makes Jimin want to curl up and hide. 

Jimin nods. 

Namjoon frowns. "How would that work?" 

Jimin shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. He doesn't know what he's doing. He never has, and the thought of trying to have a relationship with Namjoon while halfway around the world is terrifying. 

But Jimin can be greedy too, and he does not want to give this up. Namjoon is too precious to him for that. 

Namjoon sighs. "Jimin, I love you too," he says, quietly. "But I don't know. I just ... let me think about it, okay?" 

The words are gentle and fair, but they still feel like a stake through Jimin's heart. He takes another sip of beer to have something to do. It burns going down. He closes his eyes again and rolls onto his side, facing the window, away from Namjoon. He tucks his knees up into his chest.

The bed shifts and Namjoon lies down too. He presses close. One of his hands comes up to Jimin's waist. His fingers rub the soft skin over Jimin's hipbone. 

"I love you," Namjoon says. "That's not going to change. I just ... I just need to think." 

"I know," Jimin says quietly, eyes still closed. "I understand." 

Namjoon exhales loudly. He presses a soft kiss to the back of Jimin's neck. The ugly old bed spread is rough and uncomfortable. Jimin can smell the conditioner that Namjoon uses, smell his shampoo. One of his feet grazes Namjoon's calf. He can't hear anything except for Namjoon's breathing.

They have never been closer, and they have never been further apart.

*****

Jimin leaves, but this time he does not run away. 

He calls his mother and says that he's going to be buying his ticket home and he will let her know when he has the particulars of his flight. She sounds relieved and concerned all at once, and fills him in on the latest wedding plans. 

Nothing changes, exactly, between Namjoon and him. They spend almost all their time together, and Jimin feels more keenly than ever that he loves Namjoon, is in love with him. He questions his decision all the time, especially in the mornings when he wakes up with his arms around Namjoon's waist and Namjoon's face tucked into his shoulder. He questions it in the evenings, when they are sitting next to each other on the couch, not talking but feeling close and soft and warm. He questions it at night, in bed, when Namjoon with his hands and his lips and his words makes Jimin feel more loved and more beautiful than he ever has before in his life. 

But Jimin does not change his mind. He buys a one way ticket from JFK to Incheon. It's an overnight flight, leaving late and getting in early the next morning. He flew from Busan to Seoul on the way up, but he doesn't arrange that ticket yet. He'll text Yoongi, maybe, or Hoseok, and see if he can crash with them for a few days. He has people to see in Seoul and amends to make if he really wants to give this another go. 

The weather becomes beautiful, and New York is even more a dream. There are tulips blooming on the streets and the cherry trees are frothy pink. They eat dinner one night at a restaurant with a patio. It is a fresh night, but Jimin has a sweater and is not cold. The food is good, simple Italian food. They share two plates of pasta and drink a bottle of good red wine, and there are twinkling lights strung up overhead. Namjoon's hair is styled a little differently, and he looks so handsome that Jimin can't stand it. 

He wants to ask about the future. He leaves in a week, and they haven't ever talked about what happens next, but he is not brave enough to ruin this moment. 

Jimin does not understand why his heart is so divided. 

He packs the day before his flight and realizes that he needs another suitcase. Over the course of a few months he's accumulated a lot of detritus. New clothing, souvenirs for his family, knickknacks. A book Namjoon gave him. It doesn't seem like he’s had enough time to gather so much _stuff_ but he can't zip his suitcase even when he has Namjoon lean on it. 

He gets another cheap bag and packs everything up. 

Namjoon's bedroom looks strangely empty. The bare corners and empty half of the closet are a terrible reproach. 

They get take out from Namjoon's favorite deli that night. Mrs. Lee is sad to see Jimin go, and expresses regret that she never got to cook for him. 

"You'll have to have Namjoon over," he says, grinning. "Someone needs to make sure he's eating right." 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, but he is smiling. 

They sit on the couch and eat their food. The television is on, but Jimin isn't paying attention. The laugh track is grotesque. He isn't really hungry. He sets his styrofoam takeout container down on the coffee table and sits with his feet tucked up under him. 

They go to bed early. Jimin washes his face and brushes his teeth first. He is lying on his back when Namjoon comes in and turns off the light. It is much better with the futon. Namjoon lifts up the covers and slides under. His feet are cold. Jimin rolls over to face him. His eyes are dark. The shadows from the streetlights tremble and shift as the wind shakes the trees. 

"I love you," Namjoon says. “Jimin, I love you so fucking much, but I don’t know if I can … Once you leave, I don’t know if it’s gonna work. I don’t know how …” 

Jimin closes his eyes. Tears come unbidden. His throat goes tight. He expected this, but it hurts so much more than he realized it would. "I know," he says. “I’m sorry, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon kisses him, one hand on his waist. At least he will remember the firm sweet feeling of Namjoon's lips pressed to his, the soft, yielding grace of his body.

The next morning they walk to the waterfront. It is a fine warm spring day and the park is crowded. They walk slowly up towards the Brooklyn Bridge. They get ice cream and watch happy little kids ride on the Ferris wheel. Namjoon talks about a paper he's writing for one of his classes, and about the expository writing seminar he's going to take over the summer. 

When the sky starts to deepen, they head back to the apartment. Jimin checks his bags again, makes sure he has his phone and his passport. 

Namjoon gets them a cab. Jimin had said he didn't need to come all the way out to the airport, but he'd insisted. 

They sit pressed together in the back seat, fingers intertwined. 

Jimin feels sick to his stomach. 

It is a busy night at JFK. The cab lets them off in the second lane of traffic. Jimin drags his suitcase onto the curb. They walk through the revolving doors into the wide, calm terminal building. He swallows. 

Namjoon smiles softly.

"You have everything?" 

"Yeah," Jimin says, quietly. "Hyung ..."

"Yeah, Jimin?" Namjoon's eyes are dark and unquiet. 

"I love you," Jimin says. He wraps his arms around Namjoon's shoulders, presses his face into Namjoon's chest. "I'm so sorry." 

Namjoon's hand finds the back of his neck. "Don't be sorry," he says, and then, "I'm sorry too." 

Jimin laughs through his tears. 

He kisses Namjoon. It is long and sweet and terrible, and Jimin doesn't care who sees. Namjoon's hand lingers on Jimin's arm as they step apart. 

"I'll call you when I get there," Jimin says. 

Namjoon nods. His eyes are wet. 

Jimin swallows. His own throat is thick. 

"I love you," Jimin says. 

"I love you too," Namjoon says roughly, and steps forward to hug him again. There is a magnetic force pulling them together, and Jimin for a wild moment wonders if it's too late to cancel the ticket and just stay. Just give into this and stay. 

When he finally steps away, it is the hardest thing he's ever done. 

"Thank you, Namjoon," he says. 

Namjoon blinks, and nods. He's smiling still, but it falters. 

Jimin smiles too, because god, the least he can do is put on a brave face. He waves, and walks towards security. 

He waits in a short line, and then shows the security agent his boarding pass and passport. The man stares intently at him and at his documents, but they must pass muster because he stamps them and waves Jimin forward. 

Jimin looks back one more time, and Namjoon is still there, watching. He waves, and Namjoon waves back, and then that's it. Jimin turns the corner into the security area. 

It's over.

*****

The flight is not full. Jimin has room for his carry-on and a space between him and the woman sitting in the aisle seat. There is something deeply soothing about the calm, neutral interior of the plane. The flight attendants are as intensely professional as ever. He takes off his shoes and puts on the slippers provided. Namjoon had given him the book he’d been slowly working through and he puts it in the seatback pocket, although he does not think he will read.

He watches out the window as they pull back from the gate, and as they queue up for takeoff. It is a cloudy evening. He cannot see any stars. The lights of Manhattan are vague through the haze. They take off and are up through the layer of grey cloud in just a moment, and then they are above it and there are the stars, bright in the dark sky. 

He shuts the window shade.

There are the familiar rituals of flight: drink service, and a passable meal even though it’s really too late for dinner. He eats just a little, and then closes his eyes. The lights dim. It is time to sleep. 

He feels far, far away from everything and everyone, removed and isolated from all the stress and pain and joy. It is not as good a feeling as he remembers. He leans his head against the wall and he sleeps. 

He wakes up disoriented hours later. The lights are back on. The flight attendants, looking as crisp and cheerful as ever, are serving breakfast. He’s recovered his appetite, and he eats the sandwich they serve him. 

They are two hours away from Seoul, over some remote and snowy part of the world, coming south fast. His heart is in his throat for reasons that have nothing to do with the flight. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep again, but he can’t. Just to distract himself, he flips through the offerings on the in-flight entertainment system. They have a few movies he might like to watch and, he is surprised to see, a few episodes of a drama Taehyung had been in the year before. He’d only had a supporting role, but it had been a big hit and paved the way for his current success.

He watches one episode. It’s not good. The lead actress is popular for her elfin, charming looks, but her acting is less impressive. Taehyung does a fine job as far as these things go, but his character is an annoying, peppy sidekick sort who mainly seems to spout off irrelevant witticisms.

He can’t make it all the way through the second episode, but he is relieved to find that it’s not because the sight of Taehyung makes his heart ache. The ache is there, but it is subdued and quiet, and he thinks that given enough time he can master it. 

They begin preparations for landing. Jimin sits quietly with his eye closed. It seems more monumental than it should, somehow. It was only a few months but he feels like he’s coming back after a long, long time away. He feels like he’s coming back as a different person, although he does not yet know if that’s a good thing.

They land with barely a jolt and taxi to the terminal. All the process and procedure of deplaning goes smoothly. He’s flown enough to know how these things work. He gets his bag from the overhead compartment, deboards, and clears passport control. It seems to take forever for his checked bags to come, but they do, eventually, and he clears customs. 

He walks out through the double doors into the busy entrance hall. He’s done this so many times, but it’s not like the old days. There are no paparazzi waiting for him. There are no fansites, no managers, no bandmates.

He gets a ticket for a bus into Seoul, paying with his card because he has no cash, and walks out into the morning. It is cooler here and bright and in all the bustle of people and noise and cars and luggage there is nobody paying any attention to him at all. 

He takes out is phone — he’d swapped back his SIM card before he left New York — and texts Yoongi to let him know he’s landed. 

He sends Namjoon a text too. He hesitates, starts to write and deletes it, and then starts again. Finally, he sends. _I’m home. I love you._

There is no response, but he does not expect one. Namjoon is on the other side of the world, and probably asleep. 

He misses Namjoon already, a heart-deep longing that will not go away. But, for the first time he can remember – maybe for the first time in his life – the deafening roar of solitude feels like a challenge he can overcome. He is alone and scared and tired, but he is home and he is resolved to try again. That’s all he can do.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the end!! It's been a long, long time coming but this is it :) I want to thank every single person who has read, kudos, or commented on this story. It's been a total pleasure to write this story and share it with everyone, and the feedback has really made the experience all the better. I'd still love to know what you think, so please comment if you are so inclined :) & I also want to thank [mintea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintea/pseuds/mintea) again for all of her help ❤︎ 
> 
> I'd love to make some more friends in the BTS fandom, so please come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rrroebling) or [tumblr](http://roebling.tumblr.com)!

Jimin leans back against the mirrored wall. He wipes the sweat from forehead and closes his eyes. It's hot in here. Condensation fogs the glass. He is sore and his sweat-damp shirt is sticking to his chest.

He has been in the studio for eight hours, and he is tired but he also feels good. It is the second week of January. The short days are cold and the sky is pale. In a few weeks Jimin is releasing a digital single. The MV shoots tomorrow. He is nervous, and the best way he knows how to quell his nerves is to practice. 

But it's almost six o'clock and he is not a kid any more. He's done enough today, and he has plans to meet Hoseok and Taehyung for dinner. 

He gets to his feet. He can feel the stiffness in his back. He's gone to doctors and specialists and they all agree: he suffers no lasting physical damage, and any pain is mostly the result of overuse and lack of strength. Pain makes him nervous, but he trusts the doctors. Slowly, he is building his strength back up. He is not as good as he used to be, but he is doing the best he can. Slowly, He can feel the old ease of movement returning. That is enough for right now. 

He washes up and changes out of his practice clothing and into jeans and a sweater. He tries to tidy up the studio. He doesn't like to leave the place a mess for the ajhumma who comes at night to clean. He grabs his coat and his bag and shuts off the lights and locks the door. It is strange doing this alone. He can come and go on his own schedule. There are regular practices with the choreographer hyung and the dance team, but other than that, he can keep his own hours. 

During those first, awkward discussions with the company, when he'd gone crawling back to them and said that he was interested in releasing music again if they’d have him back, he'd been afraid that on his own he would fold under pressure. Instead, it’s a relief. If he messes this up, there’s nobody to let down but himself. He knows his own measure, now. He can bear the weight of his own expectations at least.

He stands in the foyer and zips up his coat and winds a scarf around his neck. The evening sky is jewel-bright and the mountains are dark in the distance. There is the faintest fuzz of snow on the sidewalks. It has been flurrying all day, and more snow is expected. Seoul has been dusted with powdered sugar. There are still Christmas decorations up — snowflake lights in shop windows, cheerful grinning snowmen hanging on doors — and everything is as sparkling and clean and cheerful as a drama set. 

He walks to the subway with his hands in his pockets. It's not like the old days, when they stayed in the dorm and had managers shepherding them here and there and vans to drive them anywhere they needed to go. Yoongi’s girlfriend moved out in July to pursue a job opportunity in Singapore, just around the time that Jimin had been looking for a place to stay. It worked out, and Jimin has been staying in Yoongi's spare room since coming back up from Busan at the end of the summer. The company assigned him a manager who helps him with things when he needs it, but it is a reduced and professional role. He does as much as he can by himself. 

It is lonely sometimes, but he is mostly happy.

He heads down underground to get the train to Sinsadong. It's a bit strange still that he can take public transportation so freely, but for the most part he isn't recognized. It’s been a long time now since he was too famous for the subway. Bundled up with hat and scarf, he's anonymous. When the train pulls into the station, it's crowded. Jimin stands in the middle of the car, one hand reaching up for the strap. The heat is blasting, and he can feel the sweat roll down his back. The train emerges from underground. Gently swaying, he watches the evening sky reflected in the Han river — lavender and orange and blue. 

He climbs the steps up to the street in Sinsadong station and checks his phone. The restaurant is not far. It's a trendy, expensive place, the kind of place Taehyung frequents now that his star is so much in the ascent. It's the kind of place where celebrities are spotted. Jimin wishes for a moment that he'd gone home and showered. He feels shabby.

Jimin is eager for the public to hear the songs he's poured his heart into, but he knows that by releasing them he is giving something up. He can feel it already. The walls are going back up. He had his hair dyed the other day for the first time in years. He is not sure if people will care about him anymore, but the old familiar habits of celebrity are coming back to him. 

The restaurant is sleek and discreet behind a glass facade. Jimin steps into the entryway and pulls off his hat. The hostess smiles politely. He hopes his hair is not too much of a mess. He tells her who he’s meeting and she leads him through the dim, cool interior of the restaurant into a smaller room at the back with a skylight and booths along the walls. Hoseok and Taehyung are in a booth in the corner. They both look up and smile when they see Jimin. 

Hoseok grins as Jimin slides into the seat beside him. "Look at you, all rosy-cheeked and pretty," he says. He ruffles Jimin's hair

Jimin wrinkles his nose but smiles. "Cut it out," he says, shying away. "I'm all sweaty and gross." 

"Ehh," Hoseok says. "What are you talking about? You look as fresh as a peach, Jimin-ah." 

This in reference to Jimin's hair, which is freshly dyed a soft coral color. The stylists had offered up all different kinds of ideas, but Jimin had insisted on pink. 

Pink was Jimin's color, Namjoon said. Jimin hasn't forgotten. 

"I love the song, Jimin!" Taehyung is leaning back in the booth. His hair is black and cut short. He is playing a chaebol in this newest drama of his, and he looks expensive and glossy. It suits him. He hums along to the melody. 

Jimin had sent them all the song a few days back. He’d helped write the lyrics and melody, and helped a little with the production, but he’ll never be good at composing like Yoongi or Namjoon. It’s not anything special, really, but Jimin is proud of it.

Shyly, he asks, “You really liked it?” 

“Love it,” Taehyung says. He hums a bit more of the song. "It's gonna be a big hit." 

"Ehh," Jimin says quietly. "I don't know about that. It's been a long time. I don't even know if anyone is going to remember ..." 

"Pffft," Hoseok says. "Please. The fans have been waiting for this since your big cameo.” 

When the episode of Hoseok’s show set in New York had aired, it caused a minor sensation. Namjoon and Jimin were on screen for less than a minute, in the background of a shot of Hoseok at the club. The keen-eyed fans had seen them though, and the message boards had exploded: Jimin and Namjoon with Hoseok in New York! Bangtan members seen together again! After years out of the spotlight, could Bangtan be preparing for a reunion before oldest member Jin enlists?

It had been funny, and Namjoon and Jimin had a good time messaging each other the more outrageous speculation.

_Namjoon_. 

His name rushes through Jimin, shakes him loose from all moorings just for a moment. His heart beats in his fingertips. 

They keep in touch. They text and talk on the phone once in a while, but as the months have passed the texts have gotten less frequent and the phone calls more rare and now a week or two can go by without Jimin hearing anything from Namjoon at all. 

Jimin knew this would happen – physical distance would introduce emotional distance – but it still fills him with so much sorrow that he thinks he might drown if he focuses on it. He can’t. Not now. No second guessing. He made his choice. 

But it hurts.

Hoseok slides an arm around Jimin’s shoulders and leans close. The touch brings Jimin out of it, back to now. “The fans are _so_ excited, Jiminnie. I'd tell you all about the fan support event but it's a big surprise." 

Jimin can feel his cheeks get hot. He’d thought maybe ... but he really hadn’t expected. “Don't even know how they know," he mumbles. 

The company hasn’t prepared much. They were frank with him: they are taking a risk releasing this EP, and they cannot afford a lavish promotion campaign. They will release a teaser clip next week, and the regular articles will get written, but there are no subway ads, no music show appearances planned, none of the careful and elaborate staging that marked BTS’s later albums. 

"Fans are magic," Hoseok says, waving a hand expansively. “They always know.” 

"Saw you in front of the building, I bet," Taehyung says cheerfully. After things with BTS ended, Big Hit debuted a new boy group. Jimin knows the kids by sight, but he's not sure of all the names yet. They are good kids and they have had their fair share of success. He'd thought that their fans — so young! — would ignore the ajhussi in sweat pants coming in and out of the company building, but maybe he’d been wrong.

Maybe there are still fans out there waiting for him. 

He will know soon enough. 

They order another bottle of wine and some snacks, and Taehyung tells a long story about something that happened on the set of his drama – flowers delivered to the wrong trailer, a PD with a crush, a lamp that kept going out in the middle of the scene. Jimin doesn't quite understand the point of the story, but he likes listening to Taehyung talk in his soothing deep sleepy voice.

There will always be a tiny frisson of pain when he sees Taehyung, a tiny little burr of longing he cannot repress, but it is faint and growing fainter. Mostly he is just glad to have his best friend back. 

It is not the same as it was, but life is rich and vivid and full right now. He sees Yoongi every day, and Hoseok and Jungkook and Taehyung and Seokjin often. He is near his parents, was part of his brother's wedding, and will be here when his first niece or nephew is born next summer. He is working hard for this comeback, and he is optimistic that he will get a good response but realistic about what his limitations are. 

He is, for the most part, happy. 

He still thinks of Namjoon often. There is a blue pall across his heart, but he can taste the sweetness in the sorrow now.

It's not much consolation, but it's some. 

"What are you thinking about?" Taehyung asks. "You look like you're thinking hard." 

Jimin makes an indistinct noise. "Nothing, really," he says. He feels sleepy and flushed from the wine. "Just ..." He waves a hand. "Can't believe all of this." 

"It is a nice restaurant," Hoseok says, grinning at him.

"Hey," Jimin says. "You know what I mean." He closes his eyes, hunches over. "I thought I wasn't good enough to do this on my own. I thought … I thought I’d lost my chance. But. I mean. I'm not on my own. I never was, I guess." 

He is a little drunk; thick-tongued and embarrassed at his sentimentality. He ducks his head, smiling and shy.

"Awwww," Hoseok says. "We love you too, Jimin-ah." He hugs Jimin tight around the shoulders in his old affectionate way. 

Across the table, Taehyung grins. "But you've always been the best," he says, and lays his hand on Jimin’s hand.

They overstay their welcome and drink a little too much, but Taehyung's celebrity garners a great deal of good will. Sometime later, after the square of sky visible through the skylight has deepened to indigo, Seokjin and Jungkook show up. Seokjin's hair is short, shaved ahead of his enlistment. They all tease him. It isn't late, really, but Jimin is tired and cozy and happy. They've shuffled the seats around. He leans against the wall in the corner of the booth and watches them and his heart feels so full. This is his family, and he can't remember why he thought they would hate him. He can't remember how he thought he could get by without them. 

After things break up, in a taxi on the way back to Yoongi's place, he rests his head against the cool window and watches the lights of Seoul glimmer orange and golden in the inky night. Other cars race past, full of other people with their own lives and their own stories that he will never know. He feels an absurd affection for them and for everyone else in the world. He feels so full of rich life that he wants to cry. 

The cool night air feels good when the cab lets him out in front of Yoongi's building. He fumbles the keys out of his backpack. The trees sway in a cold breeze. Everything is still. The neighborhood is quiet. He steps into the entryway and shuts the door behind him. 

He closes his eyes in the elevator and leans back against the wall. He's so tired. Yoongi's show broadcasts at eleven, and he is at the studio. It's been good, living with Yoongi, but Jimin is glad for the quiet tonight. The elevator dings as it arrives at the fourth floor. The doors slide cleanly open. The hallway is dark and still. Yoongi's apartment is on the far side of the building, far from the elevator but with a fine view looking out north towards the mountains. 

Jimin turns the corner and oh. There is a strange dark shape at the end of the hall, lumpy and shadowed. He frowns. This is a nice building in a good neighborhood, and the halls are tidy and spare. He wonders if someone has left some garbage in the hall, but as he comes closer he sees that it is not garbage, but a man, tall and slumped. He is wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head and there is a duffle bag on the ground beside him. 

In an instant, he is alert. He has his phone in his hand, finger hovering over the emergency call button. Maybe this is a drunk or a homeless person, just looking to get in out of the cold. He doesn't know how the man got in, but if he's not dangerous, Jimin doesn't want to get him in trouble. It's going to be a bitter cold night and he can't blame the man for looking for some warmth. 

"Excuse me?" he says from a safe distance away. His voice echoes. 

The man shifts, stiffly emerging from sleep, and looks up, and oh. Oh. 

It is not a drunk or a homeless man. It is Namjoon. He is pale and his eyes are puffy but it is definitely, absolutely Namjoon. 

The terror leeches from Jimin's heart, replaced by an emotion no less thrilling. 

"Namjoon, what are you doing here?" 

Namjoon blinks. "Nobody was answering my messages," he says, sounding a little petulant. "I didn't have anyone else's address, just Yoongi hyung’s. These two kids let me in ... Jimin-ah, they called me ahjussi. Am I really that old?" 

He sounds so plaintive that Jimin can't help but laugh. "We're all getting old, hyung," he says. He holds out a hand. "Come on, let's not stay in the hall. Yoongi's neighbors are going to complain again." 

Namjoon gets to his feet, stiff and tired, and hoists his duffle bag to his shoulder. Jimin opens the door, and lets Namjoon proceed him inside. The apartment is spare and clean. When Yoongi's girlfriend moved overseas, she took a lot of her stuff with her and Yoongi hasn’t filled up all the empty space yet. The blinds are up, and the pale fat moon makes everything silvery. 

"What are you doing in _Seoul_ , Namjoon?" Jimin asks. He can’t understand it. It doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t seem real.

Namjoon drops heavily onto the couch. He leans back against the cushions. "I had to move," he says. 

"Oh no," Jimin says. "From your apartment?" He is surprised at how sad he is at the thought of Namjoon leaving that old, sweet place where they spent so many good hours together. 

Namjoon nods. "The guy I was subletting from got a new job in the city. He emailed me right after Christmas and gave me six weeks to find a new place." He sighs deeply. "I thought I'd found something in Bed-Stuy, but it fell through and ..." He lets his spread hands fall limp on the couch. "I don't know, Jimin-ah. I looked at so many apartments, but I just got tired and I missed you so much." 

Jimin has never in his life heard Namjoon sound so young and so scared.

"You should have called," Jimin says. "Hyung, why didn't you call?" 

Namjoon shrugs. "I figured you were busy. Your single comes out in a few weeks, right? I didn’t want to distract you." 

"I’m not too busy," Jimin says. "Never too busy for you.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes. “So you just ... bought a ticket and came back to Seoul?" 

"It seemed to work okay for you," Namjoon says, roughly. His eyes are dark. The high curve of his cheekbone looks too sharp in the dim light. Jimin hopes he's been taking care of himself. Probably living on coffee and ramen again, and falling asleep on the sofa. 

Jimin sighs. "What are you going to do now? Are you still in school? When do your classes —?" 

"Graduated," Namjoon says. "My mom isn't talking to me because I didn't tell her in time for her to come to the ceremony. Hell, I didn't go to the ceremony." He smiles, and it is for just a moment his familiar rakish smile. "She'll come around." 

"Sheesh," Jimin says. "I shouldn't talk to you either. You know I wanted to take a picture of you in your cap and gown." 

"You'll come around too, won't you, Jimin?" 

There is a plaintive note in his voice that goes right to Jimin’s heart.

Jimin steps away from the counter and sits next to Namjoon on the couch. He wants to take him and hold him tight. "I already have," he says. "Always." 

Namjoon makes a small, sad noise and curls into Jimin's chest. They sit for a moment in the utter silence. Jimin is shocked, but beneath that he is surprised to realize that he is more than anything else happy. Just being near Namjoon is enough. 

"What are you going to do now?" he asks quietly into Namjoon's hair. 

"Sleep," Namjoon says. "I had a layover in Hong Kong and we were delayed. I've been up for like thirty hours." 

Jimin smiles. His hand is on Namjoon’s back, rubbing gentle circles. "I mean about the apartment.” 

Namjoon shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. He sighs. “I mean, I’ll figure it out. I know I need to. I want to go to bed now.” 

Jimin doesn’t push. That will come. Not now.

“Do you want to shower first? Yoongi hyung even has clean towels.” 

Namjoon makes a weary noise. “So tired,” he says. “Come to bed with me, Jimin-ah.” 

Jimin is still for a moment. “Okay, Namjoon,” he says softly. “Let’s sleep.” 

He grabs Namjoon’s bag for him and shows him the way to his bedroom. In a strange dance that he’s become unaccustomed to, they take turns brushing their teeth and washing their faces in the bathroom. When Jimin comes in, Namjoon has changed into pajamas and is in bed. His black hair is a dark spill against the pillow. Jimin turns off the light, but doesn’t lower the blinds. He must still be drunk, he realizes, because this _should_ feel bizarre, but it doesn’t at all. Namjoon is here, and it feels like it should have been this way all along. 

He gets into bed. Namjoon’s feet are still cold. Up close, his eyes are dark and unreadable, but his smile is sweet. He brings a hand up and smooths two fingers over a strand of Jimin’s hair. 

“Pink,” he whispers in the close darkness. “It suits you.”

“You said that before,” Jimin says, stupidly pleased. “I remembered.” 

Namjoon smiles. “I came back,” he says, hush, “because I was lonely. Because I missed you.” 

“I missed you too. So much,” Jimin says. “Namjoon, I’m so glad you’re here.” 

“Me too,” Namjoon says. He closes his eyes, and smiles. Jimin kisses him, and drapes an arm over his shoulder, drawing him close. They are together and trapped in a warm cocoon of heat. 

“I’m filming an MV tomorrow,” Jimin says. “You should come hang out on set, watch me make an idiot of myself.”

Namjoon nods his head marginally. Jimin can feel his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Jimin says after a moment. “It’s all going to be okay.” 

Namjoon doesn’t reply. He is already asleep. 

Jimin smiles and holds him closer. His thoughts are racing still. He is thinking of the MV filming in the morning, and everything he needs to do for that, and his deep and hidden concern that he won’t be good enough in spite of everything. He is thinking of his brother and his sister-in-law and the new baby that is still barely more than a thought. He is thinking of Namjoon, and Namjoon’s beautiful apartment, and the deep sadness in Namjoon’s eyes that makes Jimin ache. He is thinking of Namjoon graduating college with nobody there at all to celebrate his accomplishment. There is so much, and more and more all the time, and none of it is easy. 

It is not easy but with Namjoon in his arms he is confident that he is right. They are together, and the world is good, and they will be okay.


	9. Special Bonus Surprise Content~!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of actually finishing this story (the longest thing I've ever written!!), I commissioned an illustration from the immensely talented [Yibi](https://twitter.com/yibiart?lang=en)! 
> 
> This is from the scene at the very end of Chapter 4, where Namjoon and Jimin visit the Empire State Building. I can't even begin to say how thrilled I am with this lovely illustration! She captured the delicate affection and hesitance between Jimin and Namjoon so well. The colors are so beautiful and subtle -- I just love the texture in Jimin's hoodie! Even Namjoon's little glasses are just perfect!
> 
> Yibi has graciously allowed me to share this here, so **please, please do not repost anywhere!** I want to thank her again for such a beautiful illustration, and encourage you all to go check out the other beautiful art on her [twitter](https://twitter.com/yibiart?lang=en) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/yibiart/)~

  
Illustration © [Yibi](https://twitter.com/yibiart?lang=en)  



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